When White Petals Fall
by Irisang
Summary: In 1660 a young botanist named Sherlock Holmes arrived in Formosa, hoping the simplicity of new world would free him from the shackle of familial sentiment and obligation. But how could a missionary's widow and her son become the vital part of his life even before he realized? Historical AU. See more info inside.
1. Prologue

I own nothing.

This is my very first attempt of long story. A Sherlolly historical AU set in 17th century Taiwan, known as Formosa at the time, when the Dutch East India Company occupied the southwest of the island as a trading site.

My special thanks goes to laurenceli, 221b-hogwarts-and-the-tardis, thedragonaunt, and elliedilly on Tumblr. For they are willing to beta a non-English native speaker's poor grammar and vocabs. Trust me, some of the first drafts weren't even human. For making this story become readable, they deserves all the credits. All mistakes are on me.

This is a story closely related to true historical events from 1660-1662 Formosa. But you don't have to know the history or any other backgrounds to read it. (But I'd say you can definitely look into the history if you want spoilers.)

Some historical terms will be explained later when need be. The cover art is an old map of the scene where the story takes place. But you don't need to read it to understand any of the plot.

There will be conflicts, war, and other unpleasant aspects concerning that period. I have no intension to empathize the horrible part of the history but I may use it to push the plot. I won't be overly explicit about violence and smut, but some of them are inevitable.

For those who are more familiar with history may consider this story over romanticized. But this is essentially a Sherlolly story, so I think it is entitled to romanticize as must as it gets.

Rated M for later chapters.

Here comes the prologue.

* * *

 **Prologue**

 _Sussex, England, 1690_

Sunshine pierced through the mid-summer air of the field, sparkling on the newly made dark obsidian headstone. In front of it stood a man named Sherlock Holmes, gray hair covered by the dark fabric of his hat, carefully examining the golden inscription. His chest heaved, cool summer air slipping into his lungs, contrary to the immobile black stone planted on the solid ground. A small sob by his side interrupted his inspection of the engraved name and the decorative pattern of magnolia flowers. He looked down, greeted by a teary little face.

'Papa,' a young girl quietly hissed, fiddling with the bunch of wildflower in her hands, 'Should I lay down the flowers?'

'Wait for your brothers, my dear,' Sherlock said, offering his left arm to his daughter. 'They won't be long.'

'Yes.' She lowered her head, eyes fixed on the carved gravestone.

'You are thinking.' said Sherlock, gently patting his daughter's head. 'What are you thinking, Violet Rose?'

Violet Rose looked up. 'It's beautiful, this headstone,' she said. 'Mama would like it.'

And then she blinked, fighting back tears.

Sherlock nodded 'I'm glad you think so,' he said, giving his daughter a smile. 'And?'

'The flowers. The magnolias.'

'Yes?'

'Why did you put them on?' she asked timidly. 'It's not that I don't like them. They're beautiful. But we never had them in the garden. And also, I don't understand…'

'What don't you understand, my child?'

'What does Sena mean? ' She gestured toward the inscription. Sherlock brought his gaze back to the glittering engraving of his wife's gravestone.

LADY LOUISE MARGARET ELIZABETH HOLMES

SENA MOLLY

1690

AGED 57

'It's an…' He paused, as the rustling sound of footsteps reached them. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw his stepson Archie and his son Antonio approaching them through the field. Both were clad in black. Archie had a well-worn book in his hand.

'The magnolias look real,' remarked Archie, leaning in to take a closer look at the marble before greeting them. 'Papa, Violet Rose.'

'If only we could cultivate them in the garden,' said Antonio. He had three sprays of orchid in his hands, freshly collected from the botanical garden. He bent down and carefully laid the sprays and Violet Rose's slightly messy bunch against the smooth stone, careful not to cover the crafted flowers, before standing back up to rejoin his family.

'It looks pretty.' Violet Rose let out a small hiss, a lump in her throat. 'Mama would have loved it.' She started to sob, snuggling against her father for comfort. Staring at the flowers laid before the grave, Sherlock let out a deep sigh. Putting an arm around his daughter's shoulders, he gave Archie a slight nod and watched as his grown stepchild opened the yellowed bilingual bible – the text half Dutch, half Formosan - and filled the silent summer field with a once familiar Austronesian tune.


	2. Chapter 1 Sailing North

So here comes the first chapter. Once again, I own nothing.

Special thanks to my wonderful betas laurenceli, 221b-hogwarts-and-the-tardis, thedragonaunt, and elliedilly, for listening to my endless rumble and making my alien English readable.

Of course, all mistakes are on me.

This chapter contains some historical terms listed as below:

 **VOC** : the Dutch East India Company. (Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie)

 **Formosa** : Old name of Taiwan. The southwest of the island was under VOC's colonial rule from 1624-1662, contributing 25.6% of the company's profit in 1660.

 **Taioan Bay** : The old name referring a large lagoon surrounded by a series of sandbars in southwest Formosa. The largest sandbank was named Taioan, where the VOC had built fortress of Zeelandia as it's stronghold and headquarters.

 **Fortress of Zeelandia** : VOC's headquarter in Formosa. A Renaissance fortress built on the largest sandbar of Taioan Bay.

 **Fortress of Provintia** : An outpost with an affiliated town 5 miles east from the fortress of Zeelandia across the lagoon.

 **Formosan** : Indigenous peoples in Formosa. In the story it refers to the Siraya people under VOC's rule.

I know, it's quite a few. But I promise there will be only one or two more in the future. So please, bare with me.

* * *

 **Sailing North**

 _Early September, 1660. Batavia_

'Um, we all say tropical islands don't see winters but, further north than the Philippines, winters can be killing when a cold snap strikes.' Sipping absent-mindedly from his glass, Captain Lestrade stretched out his legs, enjoying the mild breeze from the open window. He had just completed a five-week mission from India and was currently staying in a recently rebuilt townhouse owned by an absent business partner, who was generous enough to allow him use the property as he saw fit, including inviting guests.

'Noted,' a deep baritone answered briefly. 'What else?' he added.

Lestrade let out a long sigh. He looked at the young man standing by the window. The midday sun of Batavia shone directly on his face but it didn't bother him. He seemed so busy absorbing the sights of the busy street under the window, where sailors, soldiers, merchants, Javanese vendors and African and Bali slaves walked hastily by, heading for their own destinations. Putting down his glass on the nearby table, the Captain walked toward the man, staring into his distinctive blue-green eyes.

'Well?' the young man raised his eyebrows, giving Lestrade his typical questioning look.

Lestrade frowned. If he hadn't got to know this young botanist better, during his last voyage, he would definitely consider this attitude insufferable. But he had grown familiar with his particular way ('Along with Sherlock bloody Holmes, the particular name,' he added, mentally). Overlooking his suspicious glares and knowing smirks was simply a way of suppressing the urge to throw him over broad.

'It is all very endearing, watching you try to produce answers with such efforts, Lestrade,' Sherlock Holmes started, a scoff hanged at the corner of his lips, 'though it would be very much appreciated if you tried to provide them a bit quicker. For I'm sure, being an experienced seafarer as you claimed…'

'I am an experienced seaman, thank you very much,' Lestrade huffed, shaking his head and pacing away, returning to the sitting area to pour more drinks.

'Then why don't you spit them?' he smirked, turning his face to give the Captain an oh so smug look, gestured to him to bring him a glass of rice wine, a beverage which the botanist had grown quite fond of during his journey, whilst on broad Lestrade's ship .

'Because I don't understand why you've decided to go north on the day after we arrive in Batavia, a city where you claimed, as I quote, to be "very anxious" to visit.'

'I have seen enough,' Sherlock answered, curtly.

'Oh, really?'

'You know my method. I only look into what's relevant. A town occupied only by rich merchants doesn't suit my requirements.'

'Yeah, I know your way very well.' Rolling his eyes, Lestrade couldn't help but think of the day when the arrogant passenger swaggered into his office, suggested - well demanded - he investigate the food storage and, thereafter, expose a smuggling gang, amongst the sailors. He strode back to the window, handed Sherlock his drink. 'That's why I don't advise you to sail to Formosa just yet. That place would probably bore you completely. Most of the island is uncivilized. Not to mention their botanical garden is much smaller than the one here. Speaking of which, have you seen the garden yet? It's not far from here.'

'Been there. Not interested,' Sherlock answered, immediately.

'And I thought you were the botanist here,' the older man chuckled. 'If you are not interested in the biggest botanical garden in the Far East, then…'

'I am a botanist,' Sherlock's deep baritone interrupted him. 'I specifically recall you borrowing my published works on broad your ship, Captain. And I also recall telling you I intend to go as far as possible to study whatever the world has to offer. And, if you must know, the keepers of the biggest so-called botanical garden you mentioned are the very definition of incompetence. They keep aquatic plants in a dry pit. How can I do any serious work if my subjects are either half dead or partly twisted out of shape?'

'So you are confident things will be better in Formosa? You do realize there are only two small towns in Taioan, with no more than 2000 Europeans.'

'Who said I care about Europeans?' Sherlock smirked.

'You will when you find out how difficult it is buy a jar of rice wine from the Chinese. Not to mention the Formosans. They're not known for being particularly fond of us, if you know what I mean.'

Sherlock stared at him, still wearing that smirk at his face. Striding to a wooden armchair beside the window, he sat down and steepled his hands in front of his chin. 'Yes, head hunting savage tribes, heard of them before,' he grinned at the older man. 'How curious.'

'You must be joking,' Lestrade gaped, looked completely defeated. 'Most people would at least look a bit concerned when they learned about this.'

'Am I most people?'

'Certainly not. But it won't stop you from becoming a target.' The captain shook his head, walking back to his seat. Relaxing his limbs as he lounged back, the silver haired man gave a sigh.

'You know, if you weren't the way you are, always chasing mysteries and not caring what comes out of your mouth, I wouldn't be half as worried as I am right now.'

'No need to be concerned about me,' Sherlock replied, his deep voice echoing in the spacious room. 'From what I'd heard, Formosan tribes haven't practiced head hunting for at least a decade. Some even say they've all converted to Christianity. An exaggeration of course, but still.' He took a long, loud sip from his cup before he continued. 'It's not likely the head hunters will take any notice of a sample-collecting botanist,' he chuckled.

'As if you could only focus on picking plants. I'd advice you not to meddle with the affairs of others but, knowing you…well,' Lestrade sneered, thinking of their last shared voyage when Sherlock almost got himself thrown overboard by his officers because the botanist's deductions had driven everyone mad.

'I do intent to concentrate on my work. If circumstances allow, of course,' Sherlock sighed, putting his cup on the floor. 'After all, if everyone knew how to use their eyes and ears correctly, they would never need any of my meddling, would they?'

* * *

Acquiring a berth on a ship going north was surprisingly quick. Despite trying to discourage him at first, Lestrade was more than willing to contact his business partner to call on some small favors, helping him secure not only a place on a ship, but also a little cottage near the botanical garden in the town of Provintia, the smaller of the two towns in Taioan, occupied by soldiers and clergymen and Chinese, near Fortress of Provintia. As it turned out, the owner of the luxurious townhouse they currently stayed in owned not only a big estate in the most exclusive part of Batavia, but also quite a bit of a _reputation_ within the VOC. It seemed that, a decade ago, their host ('Mr Hunter, or Harper? What was his name, really?') had some sort of legal dispute against a man named Nicolas Verburg, who happened to be the former governor general of Formosa, and also a current member of the Council of Justice. Although Lestrade never told him any details of their quarrel ('something private, none of your concern.'), it was fairly obvious that the high-status man and the whole East India Company had been somehow in the wrong. For, once the captain and the botanist gave them their absent host's name, all the bureaucratic nonsense disappeared instantly. ('Too scared to cross him again, you see.') Within days, Sherlock's permission to travel was issued. Everything was settled, much to his delight.

And now he lay on the cabin floor, staring at the wooden ceiling and feeling the violent waves rocking the ship. The monsoon, he noted mentally. That frightening beast had determined the sailing course for centuries, even after humans mastered the skill of sailing into the wind. Another strong shake came as a billow hit the hull, flinging his entire body to the other side of the room.

'Uh, God!' he couldn't help but curse, rubbing his throbbing shoulders and back. He would end up with bruises. But he didn't care. Physical pain was bearable. What bothered him was he couldn't do a damn thing right now. The captain had ordered that no passengers were allowed anywhere except the parlor until the sky became clear. ('Like hell, I'd sit with those parlor idiots') The storm made it impossible to read or write or sketch anything down.

'Even if the ship were steady, I don't have any adequate samples to work on,' he thought. Frustrations chimed with the storm outside, stirring a distant memory of another chilling windstorm he and his mother had endured, all those years ago, when they were sent to France to live with his grandparents.

Another wave hit the ship, Sherlock closed his eyes, turning onto his side as he slipped slowly into his Mind Palace. He walked through the main hallway, opened up a huge wooden door. Another ship's cabin was revealed. His mother and her maid were sitting together by an occupied bunk.

It was December, 1648, a month after Sherrinford, his oldest brother, was killed.

'They were fighting the Roundheads.' was all his mother had said. Her maid and his tutor had told him something else. Something to do with a siege. But he couldn't remember.

He must have deleted it.

In fact, he'd deleted almost everything concerning Sherrinford's death. Except that night.

His mother was weeping, startling at every jolt and bump of the hull. Yet she didn't say anything, forbidding herself to show any sign of weakness. But she looked miserable. Sherlock recalled clearly. He remembered he had been wrapped in layers of blankets and put into a bunk by his mother's maid. He remembered pretending to be asleep and listening to his mother whispering his brother's name. He remembered overhearing her mention to the maid the whereabouts of Father and Mycroft. Still in the line of protecting the King, he remembered himself thinking. He also remembered those sobs and chokes. He remembered the forced smile and comforting embrace she gave him, when he was knocked out of the bunk by the violent rocking of the ship.

He remembered everything. Except how that night had ended. Perhaps I fell asleep, he brooded, later.

He didn't remember how they arrived at his grandfather's estate. He didn't know what caused him to always wander around in the woods. He couldn't recall what he was doing when his mother told that Father and Mycroft would be joining them. All he knew was, one day they were there, talking endlessly about rescuing the King. Later, about securing the Prince. There was talking, correspondence, endless callers and dinner parties. But none of those was his concern. As he recalled, Sherrinford had once said: 'Sherlock is young. Let him do what he pleases.'

Grandmother brought him a watercolor set, along with some pictures of pine trees. An artist was invited to stay and tutor him. They said it had done him good, calmed him down - his grandfather's words. Father once praised his sketching and illustrating. Mycroft didn't care for any of these things. But he framed and hung up the picture of the chamomile that Sherlock gave him.

Only Mother seemed to disapprove. But she didn't say why. And Sherlock didn't even think about it until some years later, when they started to say he neglected his duties.

It started with some passing remarks, words thrown at the back of his head while he tried to dissect his samples. Then fleeting comments became tentative questions. And when questions didn't meet their appropriate answers, inquiries turned to accusations. Probing looks soon escalated to silent glares. They stopped asking him about his 'little hobby'. Didn't say a word when he published his first original work. Asked nothing when he decided to leave grandfather's estate to study at the university. They were angry. At him. And Sherlock didn't know why. Couldn't understand why they'd encouraged him then withdrawn their interest. But it didn't bother him. As long as they left him alone, everything would be fine.

Everything was fine, until one day Mycroft turned up at his lodgings, informing him that Father had arranged him a match.

'Time to take some responsibility, little brother,' he stated, as a matter of fact. 'You can't play with flowers and leaves forever. Not while we are trying to restore the crown.'

But how could marrying an unheard of, faceless match have anything to do with restoring the crown? Mycroft didn't answer his question. So he turned to Father. The old man simply looked at him, starting to mutter something about forming an alliance and rebuilding their old family status in England. Which made Sherlock even more confused.

'None of these have ever been my concern,' he told his father. And things started to clash.

He remembered Father scolded him, vehemently, throwing Sherrinford's name in his face. Mother begged him, shakily, to comply. 'But why?' he asked them. 'Why should I obey a behest, and sacrifice my work, when I can't see any sense in it?'

That was when Sherlock realized he had no choice but to leave. Father had made his position very clear. 'Obey or consider yourself done with us.'

Grandfather sent a secretary to visit him, before he left for Amsterdam. The annoying idiot spent a whole hour talking about his finances, determined to dissuade him. Sherlock ignored him. He'd earned enough from his published works and never squandered money on anything except the occasional laudanum, when he first left home. But he hadn't touched it since discovering the drug would make his hands shake.

Shake.

Something was shaking.

Someone was shaking him.

'Hello, Mr. Holmes, can you hear me?' A firm hand patted his face. A voice was calling him. 'Mr. Holmes?'

'What?' Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Sitting up, he saw a blond man crouched next to him, a deep frown between his eyebrows.

He looked worried, he was staring.

Sherlock hated people staring.

'Who gave you permission to be here?' he asked bluntly.

'Glad you're alright. You haven't been seen for two days. I was a bit worried. John Watson, pleasure to meet you. My cabin is across the hall. First time traveling to Formosa?'

Sherlock simply gaped.

What was he talking about? Did he just ask a question? And most importantly, why did he look so concerned when he didn't even know him?

Carefully, the botanist bored his eyes into the man.

'You're a physician,' he said. 'You have cuts on your hands. You are very used to traveling. Not your first time to Formosa, judging by your question. A surgeon who served in the army of VOC. But you sound English. How interesting.'

'I see your head is fine.' The man stood up. Sherlock looked up at him.

Not tall, but the physique was firm and steady. Standing surprisingly still on the swaying ship. And his hand…was it the fading mark of wedding band?

'You're a widower,' Sherlock said, struggling to rise to his feet, but his whole body was throbbing.

'Here, let me help you.' The man, John Watson, clutched at his arm and helped him over to sit on his bunk. 'I thought you had fainted. You know, knocked out by the swaying. It's not unheard of. But you didn't complain about being dizzy or having a lump at your head. So what are you doing lying on the floor?'

'I was…thinking.' Sherlock uttered, looking into the blond man's eyes. This man is clever. The botanist thought. He…observes.

'I see,' Dr. Watson responded with a nod. 'So, you're the botanist. Am I correct? I heard about you at Batavia. You were with Captain Lestrade.'

'Correct,' Sherlock nodded at him. 'I will be staying in the town of Provintia. To study there, at the…'

'Botanical garden. Yes, lovely place. Very quiet,' Dr. Watson cut in, leaning against the wall, in a leisurely manner. 'I've lived in that town for ten years. Seen that place built from scratch.'

'So, you're not an army surgeon?' Sherlock muttered. 'I always miss something.'

'I was. I was posted to Formosa from 1650 until five years ago. There was a typhoon. A biblical one. Anyway, I decided not to renew my contract after that. Seeing so much damage made me want to start a life for myself. Getting married, starting my own practice of sorts,' the physician smiled wryly.

And then there was silence.

Sherlock blinked.

The doctor blinked back.

'Um, I'm sorry for your loss…I suppose?'

'You're are not very good at talking to people, are you?' the doctor chuckled. 'Typical of scientists.'

'I…er…' God, I hate this.

'It's alright,' the former army surgeon smiled. 'You are very quick at reading me, though. It was amazing. Extraordinary. Very impressive, I must say.'

Another silence.

Ohh.

'That's not what people normally say,' Sherlock blurted out.

'What do people normally say?' Dr. Watson asked.

'Get lost.'

And then they laughed.

* * *

Come visit me on Tumblr. My URL is Irisang.


	3. Chapter 2 Formosa

I own nothing.

Here comes the second chapter. The characters are brought to the scene, the island of Formosa, and introduce Molly the missionary's widow and her son Archie.

Some Dutch words are put within the dialogue to make it feel more in the context. But it won't hinder your reading, I promise.

I appreciate all the reviews, follows and favorites. My friend missClaraOswinOswald was so kind to promote this story in her latest chapter of 'Thoughts at night'. Big hugs to you, my lovely friend:)

thedragonaunt and missClaraOswinOswald helped betaing this chapter. For this chapter to be free of mistakes and more 17th century-ish, the credits belong to them. Of course, all mistakes are still on me.

* * *

 **Chapter 2 Formosa**

 _Early November 1660, Southwest Sea of Formosa_

 _'This place looks rather wild,'_ was the first thought to cross Sherlock's mind when the island of Formosa appeared on the distant horizon. Standing on deck next to the physician with whom he had become very well acquainted during the past two months, a rising tide of excitement started to build in the botanist's chest. 'This island is completely mad,' he told the man next to him, the former army surgeon who was more intrigued to discover how Sherlock would react to the first sight of Formosa than to see the island himself.

'How so?' John smiled at his friend, watching the young botanist shading his eyes with his hands, in order to have a clearer view of the mangrove-covered coastline and the dark green, mist-shrouded hills beyond it.

'Have you ever taken a close look at that vegetation? It seems like…' Sherlock paused, searching for the most suitable word. 'Every inch of soil is claimed, covered by something green. The plants are literally bursting. Imagine how many unknown species you could find over there.'

'Not over there, my friend,' the doctor sighed with a shrug, 'that part of Formosa is untouchable. So many have tried and failed. Fallen victim to head hunters, or dropped like flies from diarrohoea and fever…Tropical diseases.'

Sherlock smirked at the older man's remark. His eyes were still scanning across the mystical patch of green land floating above the blue, deadly threats seemed too far-fetched when considering the beautiful landscape that lay before him.

The doctor sighed, shaking his head.

Turning away from his new friend, John Watson peered through the surging waves. The water was clear, he thought to himself. As clear as sapphire, like the sky above them. The dry, cold winter monsoon made no impression on the ocean, even after traveling thousands of miles across the sea. Which was rather strange, if you thought about it. The very paradox of Nature turned out to be a blessing for sailors. Cold and dry brought drought to the land, but out at sea, it meant blue skies.

'I heard the island doesn't have much rain after the summer season.' Sherlock's deep pitched voice brought John's attention, suddenly back to the deck. He looked up at the botanist, whose eyes were still fixed on the land across the water.

'Only occasional showers. And sometime typhoons. I'd mentioned this before, if you recall,' answered the Doctor.

The younger man didn't reply. John glanced in the direction of Sherlock's intense gaze, trying to make out what the botanist saw, but he knew very well he couldn't see the island as Sherlock did. He had lived there, on and off, for almost a decade and experienced not only the thrill and wonder that exotic world could offer, but also the damage and loss that very same world was able to inflict. He had seen bloody conflicts and battles, examined and identified soldiers' headless bodies. He'd also seen burnt and destroyed villages, wiped out by VOC to avenge the lose of their men. _Never play against us!_ It was the most basic principle of the company, enforced not only by trading profits, but also with guns and rifles.

Yet, muskets couldn't guarantee victory. Frequent head hunts and fiendish diseases forced VOC to remain in the same bay where they had landed, thirty five years ago, unable to push their frontier further. The seaside settlements near the two Fortresses were now thriving. But apart from a few friendly and marginally _christianised_ tribes and a vast area of newly-developed land, the island of Formosa remained the same. Wild, untamed, untouched, unknown.

And that was exactly what his friend, Sherlock Holmes, was drawn to.

'I only hope the botanical garden will be enough for you, my friend,' the doctor said, pressing a hand on his friend's shoulder. 'Just…promise me one thing,' he paused, waiting for Sherlock to bring his mind back to the ship.

'Yes?'

'Do not eat, drink, or take anything, unless you consult me or others in the town first. Your lodging should provide meals, so stick with those. At least until your stomach adjusts to the island's temperament. I know you don't care about this kind of thing, Sherlock, but this is serious.' John took a deep breath, considering whether he should elaborate on how many ways tropical diseases could affect men, but swiftly dismissed the idea. That kind of tactic was for soldiers. Sherlock Holmes was smarter than that.

'Will you give your word?'

'Of course, John.' the botanist nodded, still facing the waters. 'Falling ill or being killed is never my intention, I can assure you.'

* * *

 _Mid November, 1660, Town of Provintia_

Outside a three-room cottage, sitting on the garden fence, seven-year-old Archibald Jansen wasn't happy.

His little face, usually wearing a smile, was now grimacing.

'Aren't you going to help me?' a gentle call reached his ears. Across the yard, behind an open window, his mother gazed at him, holding a thick pile of folded linen.

The boy frowned, looking away.

'No,' he bit out, refusing to look up. Guilt rose within his chest, as his mother called him again. But he dismissed it, ignoring her pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

His mother sighed, going back to her work. Above the sound of the chilly wind, the boy could hear her putting down the linen and trying to pull out a big chest, panting as the heavy box strained her. A few moments passed, his neck becoming a little stiff from turning his face away.

Jumping down from the wooden fence, he walked, reluctantly, into the house. A roomful of scattered belongings cluttered the floor. In amongst them was his mother, kneeling beside a large camphor chest arranging some woolen clothing. My father's clothes, he thought.

'Archie,'- noticing him approaching, she looked up from the chest- 'darling, listen… '

'Why do we have to move?' he barked, cutting his mother pitched a little higher than he'd expected.

His mother frowned, looking away and rubbing between her eyes, her already apprehensive look now reduced to distress. Through the dim daylight, Archie saw her pale face beneath the frill of her cap. She was holding her breath.

She only did it when she was on the brink of tears.

Archie hated it.

'I don't want to move,' he said, lowering his head.

'I know you don't,' his mother answered, wiping her face with her sleeve and standing up. Slowly, she cupped her hands around Archie face.

'Neither do I,' she said.

'Then why?' he asked timidly.

'Because I can't manage this household any longer, finance and all.' softly she said. Frustration was written all over her face. 'And you are to study with Captain Pedel's son, spending most of the day there. It won't make much difference, just a new place to sleep.'

'Little Thomas Pedel is an idiot!' Opening his mouth to argue, Archie snorted at the notion of staying in the same schoolroom with that boy. 'And so is his mo-'

'Mrs. Pedel is a very generous woman to allow you into their schoolroom. Their tutor is a well-learned man. That's all that mattered.' Her eyes bored into his and squeezed his cheeks before withdrawing her hands.

'But-'

'No "buts", Archie,' she gave him a firm look, returning to her packing. 'Your education is of the utmost importance. No arguing, here. Now, you can either stand there sulking, or you can run to Mrs. Hudson and tell her I've packed most of the things. She'll probably give you tea with sugar but don't think I won't find out if you take it.' With that final instruction, she walked away, lifting her skirt as she tiptoed across the room, between the bags and boxes, disappearing through the door of the main bedroom.

Mrs. Hudson's house always smelled like pies and cinnamon. Archie made a noisy entrance, as he ran through her back door into the kitchen, expecting to see the old lady by her stove, only to hear her talking to someone in the front room parlour.

'Mrs. Hudson,' he shouted, storming into the parlour between Mrs. Hudson and her caller, and immediately recognized him as the messenger clerk from Zeelandia.

'Oh, Archibald. How are you today?' Mrs. Hudson cheerfully greeted him. Archie gave her a quick glance, narrowing his eyes at the man sitting on a wicker chair.

'Why are you here?' he asked, looking at the message bag, by the table. There were two kinds of people in Archie's world. Those he liked and those he hated. And the messenger clerk definitely belonged to the latter. Not only because he charged for the mail they received, but also because he liked to stare at his mother, making her flinch when she thought Archie couldn't see.

' _Goedendag_ , little boy,' the man grinned at him, putting down a cup of tea Mrs. Hudson had given him. 'How's your mother? I've got something for her today,' he pointed to his bag in the corner, by the wall, a smug look on his face.

'You can give them to me,' Archie grinned back at him, putting on his most innocent look. Then he turned to Mrs. Hudson. 'Mama said we're packed and ready to move.' This was a lie- well, partly- and he was very pleased with himself for making it up.

'My, that's wonderful,' she exclaimed, joyfully, rising up from her seat and starting to search in her pocket for coins while Archie made his way to the messenger's sack, fumbling inside for letters.

'Oi! Hands off you, little devil,' the messenger scolded. Archie couldn't help but smile.

'Oh ,you must forgive him, _mijn goede man_.' Mrs. Hudson reached toward him, coins held between her fingers. 'The boy is just trying to help. He and his mother are moving here, to live with me. It has been a busy day for them'

'What?' the man froze, one of his arms still raised toward Archie.

'Well, I've been telling Molly to do so for ages,' Mrs. Hudson beamed at the man, handing him the postage, gesturing to Archie to go through the messenger's bag for his mother's mails. 'For five whole years, I've been asking; kept saying, "Molly dear, it'll be easier for you to move in here and rent out the house." But she never listened until now. Archibald's father moved her in there, when they were expecting, you see. She's very attached to that house, poor woman,' she paused, turning to look at Archie. 'Find anything, boy?'

'Jazeker.' Archie jumped up, letters in his hand.

'Run along, then. Take them to your mother.' The old lady gave him a little nod. Archie dashed out.

He didn't hold back the broad smile when he ran back to his house. It wouldn't be my house, very soon, he reminded himself. But somehow it didn't seem to bother him as much as earlier that day.

* * *

Five miles west from the town of Provintia, a heavy ship was lowering its sails, making a routine entrance through the northern channel of Fort Zeelandia into Taioan Bay. The ship would be docked near the town of Zeelandia, waiting to be checked. The captain and the crew knew already that the Company's inspectors wouldn't be too pleased with them. Not because their ship had arrived two weeks too early. But because they had made the entrance to the harbour after two o'clock in the afternoon, which meant the inspections and unloading had to be hurried before the November sun disappeared into the ocean.

'Shouldn't be too worried about your lodging, Sherlock.' John Watson walked into Sherlock Holmes the botanist's very tidy cabin, to find him already wrapped up in his cape. 'We are early, but knowing that town, I won't be too surprised if the house is already ready for you.'

'I'm not worried,' replied Sherlock. He was lying on his bunk looking at the ceiling, not remotely interested in the bustling going on outside of his door.

'You're not the least bit excited?' asked the doctor, leaning against the wall.

'Why should I be?' the younger man let out a long breath. 'Checking can take ages. And I'm very sure when we disembark, it will be too dark to take a boat east. We'll have to stay in the town near the fortress of Zeelandia tonight. Or even worse, someone will ask us to stay _in_ the Fortress, out of courtesy. It doesn't sound interesting, at all.'

His friend laughed out loud.

'What's so funny?' Sherlock turned over, eyes narrowing.

'Oh, nothing,' John couldn't quite control his chuckles. 'Just, um…honestly, Sherlock, I can't wait to see you living in that town.' He tried to control his mirth. 'I just can't wait.'

With that, the former army surgeon stepped out of the young botanist's door, leaving the already confused- and slightly on edge- man lying there, trying to make out what exactly did those words could mean.

* * *

Dutch words in this chapter:

goedendag= good day

mijn goede man= my good man

jazeker=yes

I don't speak Dutch. missClaraOswinOswald helped my with these words. So the credits are all hers.


	4. Chapter 3 Moving In

As always, credits go to my wonderful betas, thedrangonaunt and missClaraOswinOswald, for making my poor English become readable.

Sherlock and Molly are finally going to meet in this chapter~(ya)

* * *

 **Chapter 3 Moving In**

Molly leaned against the wall in the stairwell of Mrs. Hudson's house, gasping. Hours of intense labour, carrying luggage from her house, had finally worn her out. Her arms and shoulders ached and her feet were sore and swollen. But none of these could compare with the throbbing pain building in her head. Sighing quietly, she rubbed her temples with her fingers, only to discover her fingertips were cold as ice. 'I should never have taken my cap off, _'_ she chided herself, snorting at the notion that she - a mother of a seven-year-old - was careless enough to allow herself to become chilled. Now she knew the headache would likely to last for at least three days, if she could not get some proper sleep.

Sleep. What a luxury for a woman like her. Last night, she hadn't been able to fall asleep until the dark sky began to turn grey. Her son Archie, despite his initial reluctance, had oddly insisted they move to Mrs. Hudson's a day early. The old lady had been over the moon, and baked them a fresh pie for supper, making it impossible for Molly to refuse. She had originally planned to spend one last night at home, alone in her bed, surrounded by those wooden walls and ceiling with beautiful ingrained patterns that she could sketch, like a map, in her head. She had first started to gaze at those lines years ago, when she'd entered her confinement, and she continued to look at them after she'd become a mother, then a widow. Her days ended with the blurring veins, in the dim lights, and started when the rays of the morning sun shone, faintly, through the window, cascading over those smooth surfaces, like arrows falling from the sky.

 _But all of this was left behind now,_ she noted, sadly. Her new room in Mrs. Hudson's house was on the first floor, facing north, giving her a clear view of the path toward the Fortress of Provintia, the track she walked ,frequently, to work as a surgeon's assistant, and a helper in the botanical garden. Her request to take a tenant had been granted. A formal notice had arrived yesterday, informing her that her house would be leased to an English botanist who was scheduled to arrive in two weeks. No special requirements were demanded, except for absolute seclusion. _That is good_ , Molly thought. _A scientist seeking isolation would be preferable to a chatty, sociable man, working for the Company, I suppose._ She sighed, deeply, ignoring the hollow feeling that came when she thought of someone else moving into her home. _No, not my home_ , she corrected herself. It was just a house - a house that could provide extra income for Archie's schooling, which was the most important thing.

Straightening up, Molly cleared her throat as she walked down from the stairs, calling out to Mrs. Hudson in a cheerful tone, asking if she was allowed to cook the supper for tonight, in return for yesterday evening's delicious pie.

* * *

A night in the Fortress of Zeelandia had turned out to be extremely tedious, just as Sherlock had predicted. The brick-built castle, that served as headquarters for the VOC in Formosa, despite first impressions, was surprisingly small. _Small but efficient_ , Sherlock smirked, recalling the proud look from one of the Company's interpreters, who had insisted, yesterday, on giving him a tour. The man kept emphasizing the extraordinary achievements, of increased profits and civilization of the locals, but somehow managed to avoided explaining why there was a huge pile of building rubble, across the northern channel from Zeelandia. John Watson had later told him that the ruins were the remains of another fortress, destroyed in the typhoon five years before, and the VOC, although unwilling to admit this, were unable to rebuild it because most of its foundations had been washed away.

And now, standing balanced in the sampan, steered to the east by a Chinese fisherman, Sherlock finally had the opportunity to take in the whole sandbar where the town and Fortress of Zeelandia stood. The location of the castle was well selected, he thought. Built at the edge of Taioan Bay, facing north toward the busy channel, whoever had designed the fortress had made sure anyone sailing into the lagoon would be well within the Company's firing range. Clever.

Expect for one thing - the lagoon looked very big.

'How large is this body of water, John?' he asked, turning and sitting down next to the doctor who was leaning against their luggage. The two men, unlike most travellers hiring a boat, had only a few cases with them, since John had advised Sherlock to leave most of his belongings in the Company's storehouse so that they could travel to the town of Provintia more quickly.

'Large,' John replied absent-mindedly, eyes scanning over the calm surface of the bay. 'I'd say, about twenty miles in length. Not sure about its breadth, though. The sand bars are always changing. One storm in the summer and another new one appears. But it will only be five miles for us, from Taioan to the island.'

'So, they only have one stronghold guarding the entire bay?'

'One is enough, I would say,' John smiled at him, giving his head a slight shake. 'I know what you're thinking, Sherlock. It seems unbelievable for a thriving port like Taioan to be defended only by one small fortress. But as far as I'm aware, the channel in front of Zeelandia is the only waterway navigable. Except by a small sampan, like this.'

Suddenly, the boatman standing behind them gave out a chuckle. Sherlock and John turned to look over their shoulders, and found themselves greeted by a broad smile from the boatman. He grinned at them, talking and gesturing towards the water, where other small boats were also crossing or stopping to cast nets. Sherlock didn't understand anything he said, except the word 'sampan', which was repeated several times.

'Is he trying to tell me something?' he looked into the man's eyes beneath his conical bamboo hat. His eyes looked young, very young. Sherlock was a bit surprised to realize that their steersman, with his tanned face and hoarse voice, was possibly no older than twenty.

'Don't know,' John took in a deep breath, looking away from from the boatman whose gaze was now focussed on the water. 'From his expression I'd say he's telling something about how small boats work here. Can't be sure. Ten years living in Formosa and their language is still all Greek to me.'

'Well,' Sherlock said, nodding to the young man before turning back. 'If it were Greek, at least we could get a dictionary.'

John laughed, his eyes drifting across the waves in front of them, to where the yellow sandy beach began to emerge. Following the doctor's sightline, Sherlock glanced over to the shore, where another brick fortress appeared before his eyes. Fort Provintia, he thought. A surge of excitement struck him, like a lightning. Finally, after over thirteen months of sailing, he was here, on the other side of the world, in a place he had never before dreamed of, and he would be staying here.

He couldn't help but wonder what awaited him.

'Oh, dear me…' the doctor beside him suddenly hissed, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the approaching wooden piers.

'What?' Looking to where his friend's frown was directed, the botanist saw nothing. Well, nothing special, anyway. Just some empty boats secured to the wooden dock, and a child.

A very excited-looking child.

'That's…Archibald Jansen,' John snorted in amusement, turning his face and beaming.' Not the most ideal first encounter with my town I would've pictured for you, my friend.'

* * *

'Ship is here!' Molly was elbow deep in the flour when her son Archie dashed over to her from the kitchen's door. She gasped as she grabbed the table, to keep her balance, spilling a lot of the white powder onto to the floor.

'What are you doing?' she cried out, glaring at the boy who was wrapping his arms around her waist, looking up at her, smiling cheekily. 'Look what you've done, Archie,' she chided, but her voice was never as harsh as she wished. So her son, as usual, simply ignored it.

'The ship is here,' Archie blinked, his big brown eyes sparkling. 'They say it arrived yesterday. Two weeks too early.'

'What are you talking about?' Molly sighed. She was always one step behind Archie's ever changing thoughts. All she cared about right now was cleaning up the mess and getting back to her baking. She would apologize to Mrs. Hudson later, for the waste of flour. But at the moment, Archie demanded her full attention.

'There was a ship yesterday. And it's-'

'Slow down,' gently pushing his arms away, Molly lowered her face and looked into the boy's eyes. 'Ships arrive everyday,' she began, slowly, 'sometimes early, sometimes late. So what makes this one so special?'

'Our tenant,' Archie blurted out. 'One of the morning boatmen said that, yesterday, a man was asking to hire a boat, saying he is to lodge here. It's a man with a lot of books.'

'Oh,' said Molly. A man with a lot of books. What an accurate description. 'Does he say he's going to stay in the town or in the castle?'

'You're not listening, mama! You had a letter yesterday saying our house is to be leased to someone who's studying. And the ship arrived yesterday, two weeks early. Now he's coming.'

'Right.' Molly nodded as she started to take in what Archie had said. 'So, the letter says that the ship is supposed to arrive in the fortnight. But now,…'

'Ah! Whether you believe me or not, I'm going to the dock,' and with that, the boy dashed out of the kitchen, barging his way out of the front door and running away, leaving his mother standing there, staring at the swinging door.

* * *

'What about that child?' Sherlock stared as the sampan approached the dock, looking closely at the boy to whom the good doctor had referred so meaningfully. _It was just an average boy_ , he thought. Rather high-spirited, but weren't all boys like that? Eight, no seven years old. Well fed, relatively well dressed and clean. It meant he was under the care of a woman, mostly likely his mother. But…

Another figure appeared at the end of the pier. A girl with a frilled cap, rushing along the wooden planks, stopped behind the brown-haired boy, calling out, urgently. The botanist looked at the face and immediately recognized the similar shape of their brown eyes. She was a number of years senior to the boy which meant-

'Oi! No! Don't you-' John's shout interrupted Sherlock's deduction. He was aware of seeing the boy take a leap, then his back hit the bottom of the boat. More shouts rent the air and then he heard a scream. Sitting back up, he realized, immediately, that the scream came from the girl. That naughty child had slipped and fallen into the water. He floated by the boat, gasping for air. Small hands reached up to the sampan but the boat was swinging violently. The boatman let out a few curse words before leaning over the side of the boat to grab the child by his collar. Scooping the boy up, he threw him over his shoulder and strode off the sampan, putting the boy down on the dock.

'Uh,' John grunted, pulling Sherlock up by one of his arms. The botanist stood up, calmly, and stepped off the boat. His eyes were fixed on the soaking wet child and the young fisherman who was now physically exhorting him to cough up every drop of the sea water he'd inhaled, by slapping him, energetically, on his back. The boy spat and coughed raggedly, with tears in his eyes.

'What were you thinking?' the young woman asked, gently, as she dried the boy's face with a kerchief. Looking up, she smiled awkwardly.

'I don't think it will affect his lungs,' John said to the girl, as he knelt beside the child. 'This good man snatched him up in the nick of time,' he patted the young boatman's shoulder, firmly. The man in the conical hat stood up and gave them a grin, ruffled the boy's hair and then went back, to his boat, to unload their luggage. Before they knew what was happening, he had already piled up their cases on the pier, and he took his leave.

'Oh, no,' the girl exclaimed, her browns eye gazing at the receding sampan. 'I didn't have the opportunity to thank him properly.'

'You'll see him again, I imagine,' Sherlock spoke. Looking at the back of her head, he noticed a small wisp of auburn hair, falling out of her cap at the back of her neck. He tore his eyes away.

'Uh, I'm so sorry for this, sir. I mean, you see, Archie, um, he is…'

'All is well,' Sherlock cut her off. She was nervous. He could see beads of sweats were forming on her forehead. And she was stammering. He didn't want her to stammer.

'But…'

'It's alright. Every boy jumps into a boat, every once in a while. Your brother is hardly the most mischievous,' he gave her a nod, hoping this would stop her fidgeting.

She seemed to freeze.

And she let out a giggle.

'Well, it's very kind of you, Mr. Holmes,' she tittered as she spoke.

Sherlock couldn't help but frown. 'Miss?' Wait…how could she know my name?

'It's Missus, actually. Mrs. Jansen. Archie, here, is my son,' she smiled at him, reaching down to hold the still-whimpering child's hand.

* * *

Finally, the first time they meet! I hope I didn't take it too far. Please leave a review to let me know how you guys think!?


	5. Chapter 4 Mrs Jansen

I always think Sherlock's like a pup, sniffling around and making notes base on scents, haha.

Once again, special thanks to my wonderful betas: thedragonaunt and missClaraOswinOswald, for picking out the mistakes and making the language more 17th century like.

I'm so happy the story have finally come to here. Finally, the characters are all in their place. So let's rise the curtains!

This chapter is all about Molly.

* * *

 **Chapter 4 Mrs. Jansen**

 _How could I get it so wrong_? Sherlock brooded, while Mrs. Jansen continued to dry her son's hair. She had to squeeze her kerchief several times because the cloth was drenched with sea water. Putting her shawl around the boy's shoulders, she looked up, a shy smile on her face. The boy was still sobbing, burying his face in her arms.

'I should show you to the cottage, Mr. Holmes,' she said, shyly, faint blushes creeping across her cheeks. 'But, you see… if you wouldn't mind, I would very much like to take Archie home and give him a bath. Dr Watson…' She looked to John, but seemed to lose her voice again.

'Do not be concerned, Molly' John smiled at her, broadly, giving the petite woman a firm nod. 'You take him home. God knows, a bath is what he needs, poor lad. Perhaps some broth, as well. I'll show Sherlock to your house. You and Archie now live with Mrs. Hudson, I presume?'

'Yes,' she nodded, glancing up at Sherlock once again but quickly lowering her gaze. 'Would you excuse us? Sorry,' she babbled, as she urged the boy to move, rushing away from the dock. Within moments, they were nowhere to be seen, vanishing around the corner of the narrow path.

'Lovely woman, isn't she?' The doctor looked up at the botanist, a meaningful smirk on his face. 'If I had not known her family for the past decade, I would probably make the same mistake. So don't be too distressed, my friend. And, just so you know, she doesn't concern herself much with men, since her husband died. So I wouldn't advise you to be too keen, if you know what I mean.'

Sherlock narrowed his gaze.

'I don't know what are you talking about, John,' he bit out, still staring at the corner where the mother and son had just disappeared from sight. 'I simply observed that she looks quite young and assumed that it's not likely she'd be the boy's mother due to her youth. But I was wrong. It's not the first time I missed something and it won't be the last,' he replied impatiently, reaching down to pick up his luggage.

'Ah, it is good to know,' John shrugged, following his example and picking up his cases, ready to step off the wooden planks. 'It is wiser this way because you must work with her in the future, if I'm not mistaken.'

'What?' Sherlock stopped, frozen at the edge of the gravel pathway.

'Hey, don't just stop like that, damn you,' John scolded behind him, knocking lightly into his back with one of his cases. 'Walk on. Get off the pier.'

Sherlock ignored the doctor's demand. Turning around, he stared at the surgeon. 'What do you mean when you say I must work with her?'

'Why, Sherlock? Scared of working with a woman?' John snorted, with amusement.

'I fear incompetence and ignorance, John,' he replied with a scowl. 'Men or women…it makes no difference when they fall into these unfortunate categories. Now answer me, what do you mean when you say I must work with her?'

He frowned as he looked at the older man's delighted expression. He couldn't decide whether he should be annoyed or embarrassed. _Why did John look so pleased?_ Annoyingly so, he thought. It was frustrating enough to make a fool of himself in front of his new landlady and her son, even through she did not seem to mind and, for some reason, behaved more awkwardly than he had. It was still very vexing to know that the woman, who had seen him behave in such a foolish manner, would be in his presence, constantly, in the future. Especially if she were likely to smell like fresh flowers, as she just had.

 _Wait. How could I have missed this?_

Turning back towards the narrow path by which Mrs. Jansen had just left, Sherlock inhaled a deep breath. A touch of fragrance filled his nostrils. Sweet, fresh, pure, a bit sharp and with a quality of essence, which meant the scent belonged to only a single kind of flower. A kind that was unknown to him.

 _I must ask her what sort of flower it was_ , he noted, eyes fixed on the empty road.

'Are you going to stand here all day?' John's reproving tone rose from behind, bringing Sherlock back from his wandering thoughts. Blinking absent-mindedly, the botanist strode forward, finally walking off the wooden dock.

'Sorry, I was, um, thinking,' he muttered.

'Yes, I can see that,' the doctor sighed, giving him a mild glare. Without a word, the surgeon took the lead and began to walk down the narrow , Sherlock followed him. The two friends paced in a leisurely manner, along the gravel way. Sherlock looked at the blond man's back, still musing about the mysterious scent Mrs. Jansen had left in her wake. _It had to be something from the area_. He pondered, unconsciously inhaling deeply again. Nothing. The fragrance had faded away. Breathing out his disappointment, Sherlock looked up at John's back, remembering the question he had asked some minutes ago.

'Does Mrs. Jansen work in the botanical garden?'

'Ah, done thinking then?' John exclaimed cheerfully. Sherlock's eyes widened.

'John, don't be such a…'

'To answer your question, yes,' the doctor cut him off, inclining forward as he turned to look at his friend. 'She works in the fortress of Provintia, to be exact. In charge of the garden, helping in the infirmary. Sometimes passing scissors to the surgeons during surgeries and stitching the lads up afterward. Very capable woman, I'd say, with a stomach stronger than most men. Does that reassure you?' he asked, raising his eyebrows.

'I see,' answered the botanist curtly, surprised by his friend's high opinion of the frail-looking woman he'd just met. _In charge of the botanical garden and working with the surgeons? That would be rather…remarkable,_ he thought. After all, the VOC, despite their attempts to pose as knights in shining armour of charity and fairness, only believed in profits, usefulness and efficiency. If Mrs. Jansen could manage to work in the fortress among clerks, soldiers, and surgeons, she must be exceptionally adept at what she did.

* * *

The town of Provintia, on first impression, was very different from the busy commercial town of Zeelandia. There was only one three-story house, decorated almost as fashionably as the townhouses in Batavia, a few two story houses, and the rest were all cottages. Only a handful of the cottages were built with brick and stone, while others only with wood. Most of the wooden cottages looked relatively new, probably rebuilt after the typhoon five years ago. All of the buildings were south of the fortress of Provintia. The castle, in contrast to the firm and solid look of Fort Zeelandia, was incredibly simple and crude.

'Is Castle Provintia older than Zeelandia?' Standing by the north-facing window of John's two-room wooden cottage, Sherlock gazed at the landmark fortress's mostly crumbling walls.

'No. Here,' John replied, handing the botanist a large wooden bowl of clean water with a towel dipped in it. 'Provintia was built eight years ago. It was for…let's put it this way, to protect the local community,' the doctor winced as he spoke, showing Sherlock an intriguing expression. The younger man recognized that look. As a man with standards to uphold, John always spoke quite ambiguously, when it came to VOC's less chivalrous deeds.

'No need to be subtle about it, John,' Sherlock remarked, taking over the basin to splash water onto his sweating forehead and face, gasping as the cool liquid relieved the tension of carrying the heavy luggage on the walk to the town. 'You've shared enough of the Company's glorious stories during the past two months,' he paused, wiping his cheeks and neck with the wet kerchief, unable to resist the fresh smell of the sparkling water. 'It must have, uh…' putting the basin down on the window ledge, the younger man bent over, scooping the water to his lips, drinking hastily. 'It must have already occurred to you that…Oi!' His comment was left unfinished because, out of nowhere, his friend suddenly grasped his shoulders with both hands and dragged him away from the window.

'John?'

'Don't drink that water, you foolish man!' the doctor snapped at him, snatching the bowl from the ledge and emptied it out of the window. 'It has not been boiled. Fetched directly from the well! Haven't I told you not to drink anything without asking?'

'You gave it to me,' Sherlock accused, still holding the wet cloth provided by the now furious surgeon. 'How was I to know…?'

'I put a towel in it, didn't I?' John huffed. 'Everyone knows not to trust water easily. And…why would you want to drink from a basin?'

'Well, I just did,' Sherlock pouted. 'What do you want to do now, _doctor_?'

'Fix it, of course,' the doctor spat and snatched his cape from the nearby chair, storming toward the front door. 'Come along, _Holmes_ ,' he yelled by the door. Sherlock followed, rolling his eyes. _What did he mean, come along? Where were they to go, exactly?_

* * *

 _The gravel path had been repaved_ , John's mind noted randomly, as he dragged Sherlock across the road. The younger man was still pouting. John didn't have to look back to know what a long face his brilliant- yet somehow childish- friend was pulling. Scanning along the houses that stood beside the path, the former army surgeon had a place in mind, to which he was taking this impossible man. And he was pretty sure Sherlock wouldn't appreciate it.

'Mrs. Hudson?' Standing at the front door of one of the closest two-story houses, John knocked heavily on the hard wood door. 'Mrs. Hudson, it's Watson. John Watson. I have returned from Batavia.' The door shook for a few moments. No answer.

Sighing, John looked back to his friend, eyes narrowed. 'Right,' he spat.

'What?' Sherlock widened his gaze. 'What do you have in mind, _Watson_?' Mimicking John's earlier tone, the botanist gave a smirk.

'What indeed,' John glared at his friend. He'd seen that knowing smile. Insufferable man, he said to himself before opening his mouth. 'Come here!' Gesturing for Sherlock to follow him, the surgeon walked through the garden, toward the back of the house, where he knew Mrs. Hudson's kitchen was located. 'Hello,' he called out, banging on the door, hoping the old lady left it unlocked. 'Mrs. Hudson?'

'Whoa!' Suddenly, the door flew open. Archie giggled as he dashed out, bumping directly into John, then Sherlock. Sherlock gasped and braced himself with his hands, grabbing firmly at the boy's soapy shoulders. John couldn't help but give out a surprised titter. Because the boy was completely naked.

'Archie!' his mother ran after him, a large towel in her hands. She stopped by the open door, staring at them, holding her breath.

'I told you someone was coming, mama,' Archie yelled and laughed, wriggling under Sherlock's grip. The botanist stared blankly at the boy before releasing him. Archie looked up, giving him a cheeky smile.

'You'll catch a chill.' Molly chided, pulling the boy away, wrapping the coarse fabric around his shoulders. Her voice, meant to be harsh, was barely a mild reproach. 'Go back to the the tub, now,' she said, with a glare. Archie chuckled as he ran back in to the kitchen, jumping into the barrel by the burning stove.

'My…I'm so sorry…' she mumbled, glancing at Sherlock's soapy hands, squeezing out a timid smile. 'Let me fetch some water for you to clean yourself, Mr. Holmes,' she said, stepping back through the door, leaving it open for them to come in. 'Then you gentlemen might tell me what brings you here.'

* * *

'Did you really drink from a basin?' Archie asked as he climbed into one of the two armchairs by the fire, dangling his bare feet. He had just come out of his bath, dressed in a slightly oversized new shirt. A large piece of cloth was wrapping around his head, keeping his hair from wetting his clothes. Staring at the man sitting opposite to him, he couldn't withhold his curiosity. It wasn't every day they had new visitors. Let along someone who was a _bo-tan-nist_.

The man narrowed his eyes as he tore his gaze from the fire. He looked at Archie for a while. No words were spoken.

'Why did you drink from a basin?' Archie asked again, amused by the man's messy hair and sour look. He liked to look at grown men when they were sulking. It made them a lot funnier.

'Why did you jump into a boat?' the messy haired man raised his eyebrows, avoiding Archie's question.

'Because boats bob about,' happily, he said. 'It's fun.'

'Except you slipped and fell into the water,' the man smiled. Archie knew what he was trying to do. Grown-ups didn't like talking about their silly acts. So he wanted to turn the tables.

'I can swim, actually.' he grinned back. 'Just a bit scared and the sea water took my breath. But _Ing-a_ got me out. So I'm alright.'

'Ing-a?' the man's grin faded a bit. 'Is that boatman's name?' he asked, lowering his eyes. It seemed he was thinking about something.

'He's always in the bay,' Archie answered, 'I like him. He can play ducks and drakes with anything.' He looked at the man, waiting for him to respond.

But he went silent.

'Mama's making broth,' still dangling his feet, Archie took off the towel wrapped around his head, feeling the heat of the fire drying his hair. 'Dr Watson said your must have extra ginger and salt added, to warm your belly. Or you'll get stomach-ache, if you're unlucky.'

'Too bad.' he murmured. Archie saw a wince appear on his face. He was extraordinarily unhappy at the thought of stomach-ache.

'So why did you drink from a basin?' he asked, once again, watching the man ruffling a hand in his hair.

'Why do you want to drink water from anything?' the man sighed. Leaning forward, he rested his chin on his folded hands to look at Archie. 'I was just…' But he didn't get to finish his words because, at that moment, mama appeared from the kitchen with Dr Watson at her heels. The man looked up. His already intense stare became more fervent when mama stopped by his side to give him a cup of very dark-looking char. Archie stared at the almost black beverage. He never liked anything of that colour.

'Oh, Archie,' mama sighed softly, turning to him to feel his damp curls. 'Haven't I told you not to take the towel off until I come?' she whispered, before producing a comb from her pocket to brush through his hair, combing out the drops of water. Archie sat still, dazed by a sense of security, as the overwhelming scent of the magnolias, hidden under her coiled hair, enveloped him.

* * *

Thoughts? Comments?

How do you feel about a chapter about Molly but without Molly's POV?

Please feel free to leave a review:)


	6. Chapter 5 Magnolias

Once again, I own nothing. (I wish I did...)

In BBC Sherlock, there's a lot of scenes of Sherlock drinking tea. It seems so natural. But it can't be the case in When White Petals Fall because the story is set in mid 17th century. With Southern China being the only place producing tea in the world, the beverage had just begun to be known among a few in the high society of Europe. While in the Far East, it was considered a common drink.

So, what would happen when Sherlock drinks tea for the first time?

My special thanks go to my wonderful betas: thedragonaunt and missClaraOswinOswald. For their support and meticulous betaing. I can't possibly publish a readable story without them. Of course, all mistakes are still on me.

This chapter is about Molly, Sherlock, and most of all, Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

 **Chapter 5 Magnolias**

The first thing to cross Molly's mind in the next morning was how blissfully rested she was. Her head, which had been throbbing for the past day, was eased considerably by a good night's sleep. She awoke at daybreak, when the first shred of light fell on her face. It took her a few moments to realize where she was, not in her house, but one of the second floor bedrooms of Mrs. Hudson's. Through her half open door, she could hear Archie's slight snort in the next room, a rhythmic sound which could always calm her down.

 _Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing after all_ , moving in here, she thought. In her own house, it was impossible to hear the boy's sound in her room, for Archie's bedroom had been across the corridor.

Thinking of which, she smiled. Slipping out of bed quietly, Molly tiptoed to sit at the small desk by the northing-facing window, on which was laid her Japanese dressing box. Gently stroking the lacquer lustred surface, Molly sighed, admiring the beautiful piece, as she recalled the way her late husband had frowned at the sumptuous box when it was first delivered to her as a belated bridal gift from her uncle in Batavia. As a man in the line of missionary work, Tom had never approved of any form of extravagance. But even he had put very little effort into persuading her to put it away, for those painted flowers and butterflies were so delightfully delicate to behold.

Quietly looking into the mirror, Molly ran her fingers absent-mindedly through her morning tousle. A few white petals came loose from her hair, falling on the floor. Staring down at the wilted flowers, she blinked, blankly. 'I must have forgotten to remove the magnolias last night,' quietly she muttered, reaching down to pick up the still sweet smelling blossoms. Later, she would go out and scatter the snowy petals on the ground while she picked some fresh ones. No matter how naive and laughable it might seem, Molly always believed that flowers and blossoms belonged to the earth which had nurtured them. So even if she collected a few to perfume herself, it could only be right to give them back once their purpose had been served.

'Mama,' suddenly, Archie's small hiss came into the room. Molly flinched, slightly startled at the weak sobs. It was Archie's nightmare cry. She recognized it immediately.

Scrambling to her feet, Molly called out, 'Darling,' rushing to the boy's bed. Archie was staring at the plain wall, panting. 'My brave little man,' she cooed, pulling the boy into her arms. 'Bad dream?'

'I…' Archie opened his mouth to talk but his voice failed him. 'I'm not…'

'It's alright,' Molly gazed down at her boy. It wasn't the first time he had a nightmare and forgot it right away, which Molly had always considered a blessing. 'Everything is fine now,' she said quietly, gently tucking him back into the bed. 'It's still early. You should sleep some more.'

Archie groaned faintly, pulling away from Molly's arms to bury his face into his pillow, sobbing. Gently, Molly rested her hands on his head and shoulder. Within moments he went quiet, falling asleep, as his small chest heaved rhythmically. Molly smiled at her son'e peaceful expression. Turning away from the bed, she walked carefully back to her desk, wrapping all the white flowers in her handkerchief before starting to dress.

'Oh, good morning, dear,' Mrs. Hudson's cheerful greeting rang from the other side of the hallway, as Molly descended from the stairs. Through the weak light of the winter dawn, Molly saw her slim figure moving by the kitchen window. The thick aroma of hot butter and tea drifted from the heated stove, filling up the whole parlour.

'Mrs. Hudson,' Molly greeted, approaching the oven. 'You're awake. I believe we agreed yesterday that I would prepare the morning meal,' she sighed, giving her a distressed look. Mrs. Hudson had revelled in the thrill of taking care of her and Archie ever since they had decided to move into her house. Her enthusiasm had even been further fired yesterday, when she returned home from her monthly visit to Zeelandia, and found that not only Dr Watson, one of her favourite neighbours, but also Mr. Holmes, Molly's new tenant, had made an unexpected appearance in her parlour. After hearing the stories of how Archie falling into the sea and Mr. Holmes mistakenly drinking the wrong water, Mrs. Hudson decided that it was her duty to provide each of them with the proper supper they deserved, especially for the _boys_ who had suffered the most.

'I agreed nothing, my dear,' Mrs. Hudson responded with a pout. 'And you know that,' she continued, chidingly, placing a platter with fresh boiled eggs and surplus pies left from last evening in front of Molly. 'Now, sit down and eat up. Oh, and I've already picked some of the white blossoms you like from the garden. They are on the table by the front door.'

'Goodness, Mrs. Hudson,' Molly muttered, taking over the fork and knife from her landlady as she seated herself, 'I don't know what to say…You've been too kind.'

'Well,' Mrs. Hudson beamed at her. 'Just eat up, my girl. Now, I should go to call on Mr. Holmes and bring him the basket.'

Upon hearing this, Molly put down her fork. 'My…Mrs. Hudson, you don't need to look after my tenant for me. I mean, you've helped so much. It's not even your…'

'Oh, don't worry about that, dearest!' the old lady waved at her, basket on her arm. 'That Mr. Holmes is hardly a fussy man. Look how he ate up all the food I shoved under his nose yesterday. Though I'd say it was because he couldn't desist from looking at you, but still,' she paused, giving Molly an intriguing wink. 'I'll be back in a moment. You stay here, finish the meal.' Giving her another wave, Mrs, Hudson headed to the front door, ignoring Molly's confused silence and narrowed eyes.

'Ah, and Molly,' halting by the open door, her landlady seemed to recall something.

'Ye…yes, Mrs. Hudson?' Molly stammered, biting her lip, staring at Mrs. Hudson through the hallway and the parlour.

'You may want to splash some water on your face before Archibald wakes up. Your cheeks are burning like beef liver just as we speak.' With that, she stepped out and closed the front door, leaving Molly sitting at the table, gasping for air, as her racing heart pounded in her chest.

* * *

The first night at his new lodging in the town of Provintia, Sherlock Holmes was restless. His mind, although becoming dim with the late hour, refused to give in to sleep. At first, it seemed not to be a great issue. Keeping the light on, he inspected the rooms and the small kitchen of the cottage, deducing every little detail of the furniture and the modest decorations. The main bedroom, which he currently occupied, had once belonged to Mrs. Jansen. The bedding had been replaced. But Sherlock could make out the tiny finger marks on the curtains by carefully touching the edge. _Fine stitching_ , he remarked mentally while examining the needlework on the hem of the fabric. The other room across the narrow corridor had been Archie's. The boy had left a few scratches and carvings on the bed's wooden head broad. By his single bed laid a large camphor chest. It was the only personal belongings left behind. Mrs. Jansen had explained to him, apologetically, when he had been about to leave Mrs. Hudson's, that she had left such a chest in the smaller bedroom because there was not enough space in Mrs. Hudson's storage room to place it. Sherlock couldn't recall what he had said about this except that Mrs. Jansen had kept avoiding his eyes, as if she didn't dare to look at him.

The other parts of the cottage, the small parlour and the kitchen, had nothing special to catch his eye. Mrs. Jansen had done a very fine job, clearing the house. The whole place felt empty, especially in the chill winter air and feeble light.

After deciding not much could be done for the moment, Sherlock retired into the bedroom. Lying under the thin quilt, he expected to drift into unconsciousness, yet his mind seemed to have other intentions.

It mush have been the _char_. _Damn those devilish dark herbs from China_ , Sherlock cursed silently, tossing and turning on the hemp mattress. He had heard of such drink for many years, back in France. A lot of people seemed to believe it could cure everything. Although he wouldn't believe anything to be so magical, the refreshing nature which everyone kept mentioning had indeed intrigued him. Which was why he had taken several cups, before and after the supper. He had noticed that Mrs. Jansen hadn't allowed the boy to take any of it, saying it was too late. But it hadn't seemed a concern for him. Not until now.

Letting out a long breath, Sherlock rolled out of bed. Reaching for the side table, he threw his shirt over his shoulders, only to find out that his whole body was sweating, and his heart was racing.

 _Oh, dear lord…_ Sherlock bit his lip, striding into the parlour. Sitting down on one of the wicker chairs, he shut his eyes, trying to slow his breathing. His heart pounded like a sledgehammer, hitting wooden stakes. Blood rushed to his ears, making a humming sound like a swarm of wasps hovering over their target.

 _I'm not going to die like this, am I?_ Sherlock brooded, curling up on the chair, wrapping his arms around his knees. His pulse refused to slow down. He tried to slip into his Mind Palace, going into the woods near his grandparents' house where he'd spent most of his boyhood. Yet his mind could not stay focused. He ended up fidgeting, rocking in his seat, before deciding to go out for some fresh air.

Striding through the kitchen and out of the back door, Sherlock made out, by starlight and the old moon, the outline of the low fence. Stopping by the edge of the garden, the botanist knelt to the ground, reaching down to feel the coarse grass and hard soil under his palms. His hands were trembling, not as violently as he had been under the influence of laudanum, but simply slight shivers, as if he had been working too much and lost control of his fingers.

Annoyed at this thought, Sherlock sprang to his feet. Squeezing his eyes shut, he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, feeling his racing heart and uneven breath. Frustration seethed within his chest as he jabbed one of the nearby tree with his elbow. The pain made him gasp. Rubbing his swelling joint, he sighed deeply, chiding himself for such stupidity, only to be struck by a faint trace of fragrance subtly permeating through the air.

It was the scent. Sweet, fresh, a bit sharp, with a touch of essence. Exactly as he'd picked up, earlier, around Mrs. Jansen.

Slowly opening his eyes, Sherlock looked up, gazing at the leafy tree dotted with plain, nondescript flowers. This was it. He'd found it. The mysterious flower, with a fragrance almost as sweet as fresh honey, when being worn close to a warm body.

Silently hissing his joy, the botanist jumped up, eyes fixed on the white blossoms on the branches. A few long, thin petals drifted down between the branches, falling slowly, as his hands swept by. On landing, the root almost made him stumble. But it didn't matter. Because he'd just procured his first plant sample on the island of Formosa. And with his sleepless mind, racing heartbeat and erratic breath, Sherlock was damn sure he would make the most of it, before he might die from that devilish tea, or whatever nameless disease he'd already caught by sipping the water from the basin.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson had always considered herself as an open-minded woman. Before she'd become a widow with means, she'd lived for many years as a traveling merchant's ignorant wife, pretending not to know that the long dead Mr. Hudson ( _may God rest his soul_ ) had not only been a fraud but also a philanderer, with two other _wives_ in Hirado and Ambon. She had first found out his secrets when she'd accidentally read the mail from one of his business partners, whom, as it later turned out, had been one of many poor victims that her Frank had conned. And to her surprise, she hadn't been as much upset as she'd imagined she should have been.

Playing the part of an innocent fool had taught her a lot. Once seeing the true colour of her man, everything that had once vexed her, could bother her no more. She'd stopped worrying about whether she'd been pleasant enough for him or not, only paying him half the attention she had used to. And during his constant absences, she would simply enjoy her life in Formosa, for which she'd been somehow grateful to the man who had deceived and toyed with her. Because it was down to him that she could leave London and settle in a place where spring and summer lasted forever.

And now, after living on her own for over eighteen years, Martha Hudson found herself embracing the new change in her life: looking after Molly and her boy Archie. She had known Molly for nearly fifteen years, since she'd first come to Zeelandia with her father at the age of ten. But they hadn't been able to make better acquaintance until Molly had moved to the town of Provintia, shortly after marrying Tom, the schoolmaster to the clan of Sinkan. By the time the poor girl had been widowed by that horrendous typhoon, they knew each other very well. After all, under the reign of VOC, there was only a handful of Englishmen staying permanently in Formosa. And Molly was the only woman with whom she could speak freely.

But that would probably change as well, Mrs. Hudson thought, walking to Molly's cottage with a basket hanging over one of her arms. The young man lodging there was an absolute joy. She'd never known anyone in her life to be so quick with his thoughts and so blunt with his words. At the first glimpse of her presence, he'd blurted out all her activities of the past day, much to Dr Watson's dismay. What had been even more charming was the way he'd secretly smiled at Archie's admiring exclamation, and the discreet glance he'd cast at Molly after finishing his _deductions_. For the whole evening, he hadn't stopped looking at her, when he'd imagined no one could see. And that, Mrs. Hudson believed, could mean anything.

'Mr. Holmes,' she called out, giving a few knocks on the door, Mrs. Hudson grinned ,as she heard the thump of the chair and urgent footsteps crossing on the floor.


	7. Chapter 6 To the Castle

I don't own any of the characters.

This chapter contains some Dutch words in the dialogues in order to make the story feel more historical. I hope it won't cause too much trouble for my readers. The translations are attached to in the end.

Credits belong to my wonderful betas, thedragonaunts and missClaraOswinOswald. missClaraOswinOswald also helped me with the Dutch language. Of course, all mistakes are on me.

The army surgeon John may have left the VOC's service for some years, but how exactly is his reputations and status in the Company?

* * *

 **Chapter 6 To the Castle**

A full night sleep in one's own bed after months of traveling was a blessing. Waking up with a stomach still full of the best imaginable food from the previous evening was even more than a blessing. It was bliss. Which was why John found it so difficult to rise from his bed this very morning. He roused when the noise of people began to filter through the wooden walls. A sign telling him that the town was slowly waking up, with people walking down the path toward the castle, or rushing up to the dock, seeking ferry boats to Zeelandia before the tide rose up. Usually John was happy to walk out and greet these people, his comrades in old days and neighbours in the town he called home. But at the moment, all he wanted was to lie quietly under his blanket and enjoy the blissful serenity.

Which was proven impossible when pressing knocks came from his front door, together with a few urgent shouts.

'Dr Watson, Dr Watson, _bent u daar_?' a man called urgently, pounding heavily on the door. 'Dr Watson!'

' _Ja,_ I'm here.' Shouting back, John abruptly rose abruptly to his feet. Years of service in the VOC army told him it wouldn't be a normal house call request awaiting him. Only the castle knew he had arrived back in the town the day before. And with him having been out of the army for so many years, it had to be something critical or unusual for them to send a man to fetch him.

'What is it?' Unbolting the door, John wasn't surprised when the man pushed directly into his house without asking. The man in the uniform, from his looks, was merely a boy. And he was slightly trembling. Whatever brought the young soldier to his door must have been frightening.

'I need to…' he began, panting violently. 'This has to be kept quiet…'

'Breathe, _soldaat,_ ' said John, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder, urging him to sit down. But the soldier shook his head, refusing to move.

'You're needed at this instant, Dr Watson, in the castle,' he croaked, still gasping for air. 'And this has to be kept quiet for now. Please, _meneer_ , you have to come with me.'

' _Goed_ ,' answered John, walking towards his sitting area in search of clothing from his opened cases. He wondered if he could ask the boy to fetch him some water from the kitchen but quickly dismissed the thought, for the young man looked very on edge. John suspected if he suggested anything which could delay his mission, he would actually die on the spot. So instead, after putting on his dress shirt, John headed to the kitchen himself.

'So, tell me, _soldaat_ ,' he asked, while splashing water onto his face, listening to the young man's nervous pacing. 'What exactly brings you to me?'

'It's the people in the village,-' the young soldier began, yet immediately stopped. 'I don't think it's appropriate to say now, _meneer_. I was told this has to be kept a secret. The town mustn't know until-'

'Oh, don't be ridiculous,' John snorted, stepping out of the kitchen after he'd washed and fully dressed. 'Think, my friend. It wouldn't hurt you to tell me what I'm asking. Not while you're still in my parlour. As you can see, we're alone.' Sighing internally, John looked into the young man's eyes. This soldier was young and unknown to him, probably not in the army for more than six months. If something serious really was happening, surely the castle would send someone more experienced to carry the message.

' _Ja_ , we are.' The soldier swallowed, hesitating before speaking. 'It's the village, _meneer_ , the clan of Sinkan. The one to the north of the castle-'

'I know where Sinkan is, _soldaat_ ' John interrupted, impatiently. 'Just spit it out!'

'They're gathering,' the young man blurted out, lips trembling. 'The Formosan in Sinkan have been restless since last night, sir. They group together and they are…' He stopped. John could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

'Are what?' John asked, his gaze narrowing. No, it couldn't be.

'They're uprising, _meneer_.' With that, the soldier pushed through the front door and dashed onto the path, looking back at the surgeon, begging him to follow. John gaped at him, hearing his own heart pounding. _No, it just couldn't be,_ he thought, walking heavily toward to young man as if his mind refused to catch up. _The Formosans of Sinkan, they were always on our side_ , he noted again, compelling his feet to keep up, matching the young man's rushing pace toward the crumbling outer walls of the fortress.

* * *

'I presume you slept well last night, Mr. Holmes,' Molly smiled, as she greeted her tenant by the path. The botanist had a small leather bag by his side. Contrary to yesterday, his seemed rather relaxed and high-spirited. 'I do hope you found the house suitable.'

'Wrong, on both accounts, Mrs. Jansen,' Mr. Holmes answered, turning around to look at her, eyes widening as he stepped forward.

Molly froze.

'I…I beg your pardon?' glancing up at his face, she stammered as she tried to understand what he meant.

'I said you are wrong on both accounts, ma'am. I didn't sleep last night. And I certainly don't find your house suitable,' he remarked, dramatically taking in a deep breath.

'I'm sorry about that,' murmured Molly quietly, looking away from the man standing in front of her. Lowering her head, she wondered what she had done wrong while clearing the house. She had indeed planned to give it a thorough scrub before her tenant moved in. The early arrival of the ship had made it impossible. But even so, she couldn't think of anything that could be wrong. When it came to housekeeping, Molly liked to believe she was rather meticulous.

'Is it because the chest I left in the-'

'Far from suitable, it's perfect,' he cut in. Molly looked up.

'Oh,' she blinked, swallowing hard, staring at his face. He was smiling.

'I managed to work on some samples last night,' he started, leaning forward towards Molly and inhaling deeply over her head. The sudden proximity made Molly flinch.

'Samples taken from your garden,' he continued, humming quietly. Molly could smell a hint of dirt and grass on him. The warmth from his chest made her vision darken. Taking a few more breaths, his voice pitched deep. 'The white flowers you're currently wearing. You hide them under your cap, don't you?' he asked and paused, leaning closer to her to take another sniff, this time directly from her covered hair.

'Mr. Holmes…' Whispering under her breath, Molly held tightly to her skirt, to stop herself from shaking.

'Wise choice, I would say,' he mumbled, pulling away to look at her, smiling. 'It suits you. I'm glad you can still wear them after you leased me the house. I didn't notice there were the same trees in Mrs. Hudson's garden. But to be fair, I did not pay any real attention to her garden yesterday. What's the name of this fine specimen with sweet smelling blossoms, pray tell?'

'Um…' Molly hissed quietly, biting her lip, as she realized how hot her cheeks had become. _My…How must I appear?_ she wondered, turning her head away. Logic told her to walk away, perhaps a little offended at such misbehaviour. But her feet felt as though they were planted in the ground. And her eyes, although not looking directly at Mr. Holmes, were gazing at the shadow cast by his tall figure, conscious of his every move.

'Ma'am?' the long shadow on the ground stirred and a pair of large hand landed on Molly's shoulders. She gasped, jumping backward to avoid his touch, looking up at the man standing before her.

'Wha-'

'I merely asked a question,' he said with a mischievous smile, 'of which I'm certain you know the answer, since you are the one in charge of the botanical garden, the reason for which I came here.'

'Uh, yes, the magnolias…' Molly muttered, eyes boring into his face, as she stammered. 'They are liked by the locals…the Formosans, I suppose. Men and women, they all wear them, use them as tribute to the _kuwa_ , the shrine of their gods, with millet wine and betel nuts, sometimes…I mean, um, it's common to wear them here,' she blurted out, immediately regretting saying too much. The castle wouldn't be pleased if they knew she mentioning ' _kuwa_ ' to a new arrival. Especially, in official records, those shrines were all supposed to have been destroyed.

'I see,' Mr. Holmes replied, frowning at the mention of a Formosan shrine then looking away. Molly bit her lip again, waiting for further questions. She had no idea how to answer except by speaking the truth, which she was sure the Company wouldn't appreciate.

But to her amazement, apart from giving a mild smirk and gazing back at her, her tenant simply rolled his eyes and didn't say anything. Instead, he picked up the leather bag by his feet.

'Glad to finally learn the name, Mrs. Jansen. Now, since I was told repeatedly upon arrival, that I must pay a visit to the castle before I start to do anything, and as you seem to be very familiar with the…ways here,' he paused, giving Molly a knowing smile, 'would you care to…accompany me? To the castle, of course.' He asked with widened eyes, as if he were afraid that she'd say no. Molly couldn't help but grin.

'Certainly, Mr. Holmes,' she answered, stepping onto the path, facing north toward the fortress.

'It would be my pleasure.'

* * *

'I say we should strike out first! Before they can try anything.' Inside the council chamber of the fortress of Provintia, a man in uniform shouted, as he pounded heavily on the table, left hand gripping tightly to the hilt of the shiny sword hanging on his belt.

'Easy, Pedel!' John pouted, resisting rolling his eyes. 'It wouldn't hurt to wait until we know more. No need to rush out just for firing guns!' Biting out each word, the former army surgeon glared at the man standing on the other side of the room. It was common knowledge that he and Captain Pedel had never seen eye to eye. And with him no longer serving in the Company's troops, the doctor found it particularly difficult to restrain himself from scolding such foolish aggression, especially when there were lives at stake.

'Why would you care, Watson? You're not even one of us. Chickened out years ago just because you couldn't bear to see more death.' the man opposite him sneered. John felt the blood in his head surging up to his ears. Gritting his teeth firmly, the doctor remained silent, simply looking away while loudly giving a fake cough. Other men on the council didn't seem to be amused either. Humming and muttering spread across the room. The head of musketeers in Formosa had promptly forgotten that most of the men present had known people who died in that typhoon.

'And that is exactly what we should endeavour to avoid.' Another voice rose. It was the deputy Governor Valentyn. Suddenly the whole room went silent.

'Sinkan clan have been our closest allies in Formosa for more than a decade. We can't afford to lose their support. Not when Hokkein is also embroiled in the war with the _Tartars_. Our profits from there have been decreased for years, if not completely disappeared.' The deputy Governor took a deep breath, looking around the council chamber.

'So, if they are really planning to revolt, it would be better that we nipped it in the bud. Does anyone have more information concerning their gathering?' He scanned around the room again. 'No? Then who made the report? Care to elaborate to the council?'

'That would be me, _meneer_ ,' a middle-aged sergeant spoke out. 'I reported what I saw. I went to visit my wife's family at Mattawu clan, and stopped at Sinkan's chapel to stay the night on my way back. It was very late, almost dark when I arrived. But I saw young men gathering in the square of the village. They were shouting. Some of them looked drunk.'

'They are always drunk, sergeant,' Captain Pedel's voice came from the quiet audience. John couldn't resist frowning.

' _Nee_ , they're not,' the sergeant glared at Pedel. He was clearly displeased. ' _Meneer,_ ' he turned to look at the deputy governor, who gestured for him to proceed. 'Formosans never drink, except during festivities or wedding feasts. But neither of those was taking place in Sinkan. That's why I was alarmed. They treasure their millet wine. Never drink it wilfully. So why were they drinking yesterday? Drinking and shouting! A few even pulled out their swords!'

'How about Mr. Van den Berg? Did he not say anything about it?' John asked aloud. The sergeant looked over his shoulder at him.

'The schoolmaster hasn't been in the village for quite a few days, Dr Watson,' he answered matter-of-factly, giving John a polite nod. The surgeon nodded back.

'So, what do you say, Watson?' the deputy governor turned to him, his hand resting on his chin. 'You know some people in Sinkan. Have one or two patients there, even. Do those…odd behaviours have any reasonable explanation behind them?'

'It's not easy to say, _meneer_ ' John responded truthfully. ' _Vergeef mij_ ,, I just returned yesterday. It would be wiser to consult the schoolmaster or minister there. But I believe the minister usually doesn't stay in Sinkan. When was the last visit by him? Did he say anything?'

'Nothing at all. Except how surprisingly smoothly the wedding service went.' An unknown voice muttered from the other side of the room. The entire room seemed to freeze

'What did you say?' John called out, widening his eyes, staring at the clerk standing behind Captain Pedel across the table.

'When did the minister say that?'

'Friday afternoon. Right before young Frederik Bos was snatched back and locked up. Stayed too long at the wedding feast and forgot the time to return, silly lad.'

'Wedding?' the sergeant exclaimed, turning to look at the man as well. 'On Friday? That was just two days ago.'

'Not on Friday. The wedding was on Wednesday,' said the clerk, blinking, as he continued. 'Bos finally got to marry that girl from…what's their name? That wealthiest family in Sinkan. He was over the moon and forgot his leave was only until Tuesday evening. Had himself arrested right in front of his bride and the in-laws. Messy business. Now he's waiting to be flogged in the prison.'

'Is it the Tamapagowat family?' John asked, staring at the man who had just spoken. 'The girl, she is from that house, isn't she?'

'That family sits as one of the representatives of the chieftains,' the secretary next to the deputy governor cut in. Everyone turned to look at him, then the deputy governor.

'If that's so.' began the man in the centre of the room, 'then could that be the cause of such upheaval right after the wedding?'

* * *

The Dutch words/sentences appeared in this chapter:

 _bent u daar?= are you in there?_

 _Ja=_ Yes

 _soldaat=_ soldier

 _meneer=_ sir

 _nee=_ no

 _vergeef mij=_ forgive me

The _Tartars_ mentioned above were, in fact, the Mandarin, who started to engaged in war with the Ming Empire of China since 1610. The Mandarin eventually overthrew and replaced the Ming Empire with the Chin Empire in 1644. By 1660, there were only a few Ming loyalist fleets and troops still fighting in southeast China, namely the Hokkien area, where the Dutch East India Company used to enjoy huge profits by the tea trading.


	8. Chapter 7 Saiyun

Sherlock and Molly are finally alone. What will happen between their first real conversation and how do they find each other?

An OC is introduced in this chapter, with historical-typical 'underage' element. So consider you are warned.

My special thanks once again go to thedragonaunt and MissClaraOswinOswald, they are as patient as saints to not only help me picking out mistakes, but also make the phrases more historical. MissClaraOswinOswald also helped with the Dutch words as well.

As mentioned above, Dutch words are placed in the conversations in order to make it feel more periodical. Not much, I promise.

* * *

 **Chapter 7 Saiyun**

The gravel path became dazzling, when the coolness of the morning air dissipated with the rise of the sun. Sherlock squinted at the grey path, noting that it must have been the quartz in the little rocks that made the road shine under the sun. Looking ahead, Mrs. Jansen's slim figure barely made a sound while moving, as if she was sliding on ice. _She would make a very graceful ice-skater_ , he thought absent-mindedly, as the chilly breeze brought the subtle scent of magnolias to his nose. Smiling quietly, the botanist wondered how he even came up with such a notion, for he'd never taken any interest in ice-skating even when he was a boy.

'So what does a _kuwa_ do, exactly?' Sherlock asked, raising his voice, as Mrs. Jansen slowed her pace to step across a shallow pit. The path was nearing the town, now. But there was still quite a distance before it led them to the fortress.

She looked back over her shoulder before turning around, half of her attention still remaining on the ground. The condition of the road was clearly worse outside the town. The gravel with the glittering quartz was mostly trodden into the dirt. Sherlock could see how muddy it would become if it were to rain. But fortunately for them, the sky was clear and cloudless, in contrast to the the verdant fields bursting with spikey bushes and grass almost as tall as a grown man.

'It's a shrine,' she replied, hints of suspicion crossing her face, as though she didn't like to say. Sherlock couldn't help but frown. He didn't like the way she spoke. He already knew, from previous experience, that people thought twice before speaking about matters concerning the VOC. John had been like that for the past months of their acquaintance. And he surely didn't want his landlady, who happened to also be in charge of the botanical garden, to be the same way.

'A shrine does…what all shrines do, Mr. Holmes,' she blinked, lowering her eye to bite her lip, yet looking up to gaze at him, only a moment later. 'They worship gods, spirits of the dead. And priests or priestesses…well in the Formosans' case there's always the priestesses to lead the rituals. Reading the omens, of sorts.' She pursed her lips, looking away, nervously.

Sherlock simply grinned. _That was a rather blunt answer_ , he pondered.

Goodness, how worried she was, whilst speaking truthfully. But still, she gave him an honest answer, didn't even try to fob him off with nonsense about the further civilisation of the locals, as the clerk in Castle Zeelandia had. Fixing his eyes on her slightly flushed cheeks, he heard himself asking, 'Where are you from, Mrs. Jansen?'

'What does it matter?' she said, quickly, swallowing hard as she stared at him.

'Because, where I come from, there are no gods or spirits, or priestesses, when you talk about a shrine,' he smirked, striding to stand closer to her. 'And certainly not from the widow of a minister…no offense! Excuse me.' He pulled back just before stopping right in front of her.

'He wasn't exactly a minister. Well, I mean…he preached and ran the school in the clan of Sinkan but…um…never mind,' she turned away. 'We should probably get going.'

'Of course,' said Sherlock, noticing the discomfort when she talked about her late husband, as he resumed walking. 'But you haven't answered my question, ma'am. Where are you from? As I presume it wouldn't be inappropriate to ask?'

'But why the curiosity, sir? Surely I'm not special enough to be of any interest to you? A widow with a child, that is all I am.'

'Anyone on this island, any non-Formosan I should say, is a curiosity when it comes to how they came here. You see…I'm fairly certain you weren't born here since you're my age and this settlement was unlikely to be the sort of place a man would bring his family, two and a half decades ago. You're English, like myself, but chances are you were not born in England, either,because your family would be unlikely to come here, if they were still in England when you were born. So, I would conclude that your family was engaged in overseas trade, perhaps for quite some years before you were born. Before there were…companies competing with each other for the Far East trade, anyway.' Taking a deep, fresh breath, Sherlock grinned, as the chain of thought came loose from his tongue. He turned to look at the woman walking by his side, waiting for the exclamation of amazement.

But she simply smiled.

'And?' she asked, looking up and beaming at him. Her face was still a little red.

'And what?' Sherlock asked, quietly, hearing his own voice hissing out, like a bee escaping from a glass jar.

'What have you concluded? About my origins?' Her smile became even broader. The botanist narrowed his gaze. Oh, he had seen that smile before, while standing outside a kitchen grabbing a soapy little boy.

'Batavia, ma'am. That's where you were born,' he said with a quiet sigh, not entirely certain of the answer. 'But you can see that's rather a wild guess. I won't be surprised if it's…'

'You are correct, Mr. Holmes,' she let out a giggle, as she spoke, looking across at the tall grass field. 'That's very impressive. Your methods and your manner of speaking, though. I nearly fell into your trap.'

'My trap, Mrs. Jansen?' Sherlock raised his eyebrows, unable to comprehend what she was saying.

'You stopped at my family being in trade many years before I was born. You stopped there because you weren't sure how to proceed with your deductions. So you were hoping that I would bite the bait and answer it for you.' She tittered, looking back to him.

'I didn't…' Sherlock gaped, losing his voice, as he looked at her. 'Ma'am…'

'It's alright,' his landlady merely nodded. 'I do it from time to time. Usually when talking to Archie, if you must know. Sometimes it's easier to put things in certain ways to get the answer you want. I know the trick, sir.'

'It was not my intention to…' Sherlock mumbled, staring at the woman strolling next to him. 'Mrs. Jansen, I assure you that I didn't…'

'I know that,' she cut in. 'You didn't realise it. But you did expect I would just finish your work for you, did you not?' She smiled, a little timidly. 'Well, too bad for you, Mr. Holmes. You were the one who wanted the answer and you were very keen to show off your skill at finding it. I certainly wouldn't spoil the fun for you.' With that, she took a step away, keeping a distance between them.

'I'm sorry.' Blurting out a hasty response, Sherlock gasped, as he spoke. 'I didn't mean any offense…'

'I know,' she cut in, again, 'I know you didn't. You're curious about everything and wanting answers. It's a fine quality for a man.'

'You believe so?' Sherlock asked, tentatively. 'John believes most of the time I pry too much for my own good.'

'There's nothing wrong with wanting the facts,' she turned and gazed at him again, giving him a smile. 'And staying curious is the shortest path to learning the truth, I suppose. But Dr Watson is right, too. People usually don't like being observed in the way you just did.'

'Such as you?' Sherlock said, immediately halting his pace and wishing he could take the words back.

She stopped as well, lowering her face to brood for a while, before she started.

'No,' said she, taking a step toward him, lifting up her chin. 'I don't suppose I mind, not really, Mr. Holmes. It's true I wasn't very pleased at first, when you started asking about me. But I don't believe you meant to pry. It was simply…I suppose as a scientist, it's your way of getting to know the world. By observing small signs and looking for questions and answers. And that is, as I had already said, very impressive.'

She finished her words with a bright smile. Sherlock found himself frozen on the spot, unable to breathe. A surge of warmth rose from his chest, as cold sweat dampened his hair. Taking in a sharp breath, he stared at the small dimples appearing on Mrs. Jansen's fair cheeks.

'You are very impressive, too, ma'am,' he muttered under his breath, noting her eyes narrowing.

'It's kind of you so say so.' Turning away, her smile faded a little, as she spoke.

'No, I mean it,' he gazed into her eyes, taking one step forward. 'When you told me about the Formosan shrine, you knew you could cause yourself trouble,' he paused, marking the subtle change in her expression. She seemed uneasy. 'But you didn't try to fib or avoid answering. You are not the only one who values the facts here, Mrs. Jansen.' Standing right in front of her, Sherlock tightened his jaw, breathing carefully, when he looked at her. The intoxicating fragrance slowly swathed him. He could hear her shallow breath as clearly as the chatter and shouts from the castle, not far from them.

'You would have found out by yourself soon enough…ah,' she whispered, retreating backwards. 'It's not a secret…that the Formosans still keep their shrines. No matter how…' she swallowed, hard, before resuming. 'No matter what the Company like us to believe, the truth is…they can't get the Formosans entirely under their thumbs, and the Formosans never really gave up on getting rid of them. Some of them do take a few of us in, certainly, becoming friends or marrying…but…'

She didn't get to finish what she was saying because suddenly, out of nowhere, a group of eight big men, in flaming scarlet patterned vests and dark trousers, pushed through the coarse grass of the field, jumping onto the path all together. Sherlock was startled, as one of them landed only inches in front of him. The striking man, with long dark hair tied at the back of his head, stared at him, his bronze bell-shaped earrings tinkling whilst he drew himself to standing upright, left hand gripping tightly to the two feet long, curved, single-edged knife, hanging at his waist. _Why didn't I hear them coming?_ Sherlock asked himself silently, as the man kept staring at him, before making a gesture to the others and turning back to the edge of the path, reaching into the underbrush and pulling out seven women, while more men jumped out of the grass to join them on the gravel path.

Twenty, twenty-five, thirty three. Sherlock's heart pounded violently, as his mind processing the number of the strangely quiet crowd. Twenty six men, all carrying curved blades and wearing bronze bell earrings. Their ages varied from young adults to late middle age. The women, however, looked fairly similar in age, all past their late thirties, except for one.

' _Sena_ , Molly,' a girl's young tender voice broke the silence, calling out from the group. The botanist gazed at the young girl who spoke. She looked as petite as Mrs. Jansen and the other women present. She was held in the arms of one of the men, like a child, one arm circling his neck. Sherlock couldn't make out her exact age. But she was clearly beyond the age of being carried around, perhaps eleven or twelve. But that wasn't what made her stand out among them. It was the way she was dressed.

She was wearing a gown. A simple, creamy gown with frills at the edges, just as any other girl in Batavia or Amsterdam would wear. As well as the gown, she had a length of fabric, with exquisite patterns of bright crimson, navy blue, and emerald green, draped around her body from front to back, under the left arm, and secured over the right shoulder by a short cord. Sherlock had never seen such a combination before.

' _ik wist dat jij het bent,_ ' she moved a little, asking the man holding her to let her down, as she spoke up again. 'I heard you talking.'

'Saiyun,' Mrs. Jansen replied, glancing back and forth at the people on the path then looking at Sherlock. The botanist blinked at her, realising how tense and hostile he appeared to be. Clearing his throat slightly, he loosened his unconsciously clenched fists. Taking a step closer to his landlady, he noted in his mind that the girl named Saiyun seemed to speak Dutch quite well.

'You weren't at my wedding,' she said in a relaxed manner, fiddling with her long smooth hair. The beads of clear lazurite on her bright red headband, around her forehead, shone under the morning sun.

'I didn't know there was a wedding,' Mrs. Jansen replied, pursing her lips. 'You know I would have attended, had I known, Saiyun.'

'Doesn't matter now,' she shrugged irritably, reaching down to rub her stomach and back. It was then that Sherlock noticed her pregnant belly, covered by the thick fabric. He gaped, as he recognized her delicate condition. _My God!_ He thought, shaking his head mildly. _I would have believed she were a ten-year-old!_

' _Waarom?_ ' Mrs. Jansen asked, her gaze widened. 'You have been pleading for this for months. What happened?'

The girl rolled her eyes, looking away. The people around her hummed, as she lowered her chin to pull a long face. One of the women reached for her, whispering something in her ear while another older man patted her head. _They were a family_ , Sherlock noted, wondering how he could have missed this, at the beginning. Of course they were family. Families and relatives. And they were all here because of the girl, Saiyun.

'It was interrupted,' slowly, Saiyun returned her gaze toward Mrs. Jansen. 'A bunch of crooks took Frederik away to be locked up, during the feast! They just came, uninvited!' Her voice pitched sharply before breaking into a hiss. Then she seemed to lose her strength, leaned on the women next to her, gasping. The people surrounding her began muttering again, this time somewhat louder. And then one of the women said something, immediately shutting everyone up. She kept talking for a few moments and then, suddenly, all of them, including Saiyun, began to move forward, silently, towards the Castle, leaving Sherlock and Mrs. Jansen frozen in place, gaping.

* * *

The Dutch appeared in this chapter:

ik wist dat jij het bent= I knew it was you

waarom= why

Credits go the missClaraOswinOswald, for helping me with the translation and giving me advice.

Reviews alway make me smile. I may PM you to say thank you. If you hadn't received it, then it's because I haven't got time to reply them. But you are always welcome to give me advice!


	9. Chapter 8 Son

I own nothing. (sadly)

It has been a while since I posted the last chapter. I was absolute thrilled by the reviews given by you guys. I kept rereading them during writing. It does motivate me a lot. Thank you!

After the unexpected encounter of Saiyun the Formosan girl and her family, Sherlock has his very first glimpse inside the complicated and paradoxical relations between the VOC and the locals.

Again, credits belong to my betas thedragonaunt and missClaraOswinOswald. For correcting my mistakes and giving me advices. The Dutch was translated by missClaraOswinOswald.

Dutch words and sentences were placed in the dialogues to create periodical atmosphere. The translations are in the endnotes.

 ****Warning: mention of flagellation in this chapter.**

* * *

' _Vergeef me._ But remind me again, sergeant. How can this be a good idea?' Leaning against one of the mottled pillars surrounding the smaller courtyard in Castle Provintia, John, the former army surgeon, folded his arms in front of his chest and scowled at the man in uniform next to him. 'Why did you insist on flogging the lad right away? Do you really believe the Tamapogowats will be glad to see their new son-in-law return with injuries? After all the humiliations the Company had put them through? They are proud people, as I'm sure you are well aware.'

The man next to him let out a sigh. ' They can be as cross as they like, doctor,' he shook his head, looking towards the courtyard, where soldiers were preparing ropes by the whipping post. His expression remained firm. 'We need to maintain discipline. Bos overstayed his leave. Nothing can justify that. The deputy governor has been particularly generous to reduce the penalty and grant him extra leave afterwards. At least he can go back to his bride standing, even hide the wounds from her, if he's man enough. I'll make sure he knows what he should say to them.'

'As if that's possible!' Shaking his head, John couldn't withhold his snort. 'If I recall correctly, that lad and the girl have been sweethearts for years. Do you really believe he can hide the lash wounds from her? And while I'm not entirely sure about their ways of treating a son-in-law… '

'Bos was born in Sinkan, Dr Watson,' the sergeant interrupted, glancing at John with a mildly weary expression. 'His father was the interpreter, posted there for many years, before he died. If you ask me, he is more comfortable staying with Formosans than with us. Otherwise he would not have overstayed his leave.' He paused, sighing again. 'But it doesn't make him an exception. The rules are absolute. He has to obey them while within the ranks.'

' _Natuurlijk,_ ' John replied with a nod, eyes fixed on the now fully prepared post at the far end of the yard. There was no need arguing with the sergeant. But that didn't mean he was fine with it, either. He never approved of lashing. The wounds were always very nasty and difficult for surgeons to close, leaving messy scars and a life time of pain, if not tended properly. He had seen enough of those _minor consequences_ turn into grave afflictions, in so many men's later lives. And he would be damned if he did nothing to help the young man, who was to be flogged just because he chose to stay too longer at his own wedding.

'I'm about to have them bring Bos in, Dr Watson,' the sergeant said, as he began to step slowly into the yard. 'I would advise you to leave us now, since you are clearly appalled by the whole business.'

'I could say the same about you, sergeant,' said John, lifting his chin slightly to bore his eyes into the man's stern expression. 'But I'd rather stay, if you don't mind. At least I can patch him up afterwards, if that's all I can do.'

'I don't suppose he can afford you, though,' the sergeant replied, looking back at the doctor.

'That's my problem, I suppose,' John simply shrugged.

'Fair enough.'

* * *

'Are you alright?' Molly asked softly, as they came near to the gate of the fortress. Mr. Holmes had gone very quiet after the encounter with Saiyun's family. And she wasn't very surprised to see the serious expression on his face.

'Huh?' he mumbled, distractedly, blinking several times before turning to face her, beads of sweat hanging on the ridge of his brow. _Poor man_ , Molly couldn't help thinking, _how unnerved he was._

'You've gone very quiet.' Stepping closer, she hesitated before reaching out for his forearm. 'And look quite shaken, I must say.' Gently, she gave his left arm a light pat, noting the slight tremor beneath the thin sleeve. Listening to the noises inside the castle, Molly wasn't sure if they should go in there now.

'Do you with to pause for a moment? I mean…the Tamapogowats are in the castle. I'm not sure why they have come, really. But it would probably be wiser if we wait for a while. At least until you feel better.'

'I am quite well,' Mr. Holmes replied, giving her a faint smile. 'They are most impressive, with out a doubt.'

'I suppose so, yes,' Molly smiled back, pulling back her hand. She wondered what else she might say to make him feel better.

'Well, at least nowadays you don't have to worry that they might go for your neck, while jumping out,' she began, absent-mindedly,glancing towards the castle. 'That stopped years ago,' she added, resuming walking on, only to be stopped by Mr. Holmes's low pitched voice.

'Do you mean they used to jump out of the grass and cut people's heads off?' he cut in. Molly looked back at him, lips apart, immediately realizing what she had said.

'That…that was a long time ago,' she babbled, feeling embarrassment creep across to her face like a flame. _Oh no, what I have done?_

'Mr. Holmes, forgive me…I didn't mean to…'

But to her surprise, he simply chuckled, looking down at her, clearly amused by her awkwardness.

'Your manner of offering comfort is truly…original, Mrs. Jansen,' he tittered, stepping closer. Molly found herself frozen to the spot, not knowing what to say, except a meek mumble,

'I'm so sorry.'

'I'd urge you not to try it too often, as it's clearly not your area of expertise,' he murmured quietly, beaming with amusement and stopping just inches in front of her, so that Molly could feel the warmth from him close by her burning cheeks. He laughed, again, taking a deep breath, in exactly the same manner in which he had smelled her covered hair earlier.

 _Unbelievable._

'But according to John, I'm not very good at it, either,' he paused, still wearing a smile. 'So that makes two of us. Don't you agree?'

'You're teasing me, now, Mr. Holmes,' Molly whispered with a grunt, trying to move away. _This was wrong,_ she thought.

'I believe I am, ma'am,' he replied, keeping close to her, as she walked away. 'For…it's very endearing that you are so worried about me. And your cheeks flush like a…'

 _Oh, that was enough._ Molly felt her face heating up even more.

'Like what, _sir_?' Hissing out the last word, she glared up at the man who had become way too pleased with. _By what right did he believe he may speak like this? Not to mention the manner in which he had just…_

'Cactus fruit,' he said, suddenly.

Molly couldn't help but blink.

 _What?_

'It's very bright and has a rosy hue,' delightfully, he chanted out the description. 'And sometimes serves as a dye for desert people,' he explained further. Molly could only gape.

'Desert?' Repeating his word, she stared at her tenant.

'Yes, ma'am, desert.'

'You've…been there?'

'No, I never have.'

'Have you even seen the fruit?' she asked, not entirely sure why she did.

'No,' he snorted in amusement, 'only a few illustrations. Very fine work, if you must know. But the colour, Mrs. Jansen. The colour was truly remarkable.'

'Indeed.' answered Molly, unable to decide if she should feel offended or not.

'I believe we should on our way,' Mr. Holmes said, with a smirk, pointing to the castle's entrance, before he resumed walking and gestured for Molly to follow. Shaking her head, Molly sighed internally, as she recognized the familiar cheeky grin. Archie always gave her the same smile when he believed he had successfully distracted her from whatever she was not pleased about. And it seemed that the botanist walking in front of her, no matter how smart and well-learned he was, had just behaved exactly the same as her seven-year-old son.

She wondered whether he would like to know that.

* * *

The inner geography of Castle Provintia, to put it bluntly, was a muddle. The main keep and the outer walls stood very close together, especially on the west side near Taioan Bay. The east side, where the botanical garden was located, was more spacious, as if the entire fortress was designed to face east. Yet for some reason, the main gate, through which Sherlock and Mrs. Jansen had just rushed, was placed to the south, connected to the town by the single path. The exterior walls of the castle, although intended to be high, thick and impregnable when first built, had already crumbled into disconnected parapets, with the personal possessions of soldiers and staff scattered on them.

In short, the entire layout of the fortress was very strange, as though it was not a stronghold at all. But none of those things were Sherlock's concern. at the moment. For upon entering the main gate, he and his landlady found themselves instantly confronted by two groups of people.

Two groups of very determined people.

In front of the main keep, stood the Formosan family. More than twenty tall, sturdy men towered over less than a dozen wide-eyed soldiers. The soldiers were clearly caught off guard. Only those standing at the front were equipped with their standard muskets. Some of those behind the front row weren't even fully dressed. The lead man, a corporal, was shouting something- half Dutch, half Formosan- incoherently, while the men with bronze bell earrings simply held still, staring fiercely, all gripping the handles of their long knives, at their waists. One of the petite women standing behind them did all the talking. But the girl, Saiyun, was nowhere to be seen.

'What is she saying?' Sherlock whispered, looking back to Mrs. Jansen, who gave him a slight glare, as she went close.

'I'm not sure …' said she, pursing her lips. 'She's a bit slurred…but I think she's asking for her son.'

'Son?' he asked, recalling the girl's irritated tone earlier when mentioning someone named _Frederik._

'Frederik Bos. He's a soldier here and…They are married,' she hissed, lowering her head, as if she were thinking. Those last words were spoken with some uncertainty.

'They shouldn't?' Sherlock heard himself asking.

'No…I mean, yes,' Mrs. Jansen muttered, still sounding rather uncontain. 'Of course they can marry. I just never thought Saiyun's family would allow that,' she said, looking towards the main keep where the stand-off continued. A few more soldiers ran out from the nearby barrack. Most of them were only half dressed, disorientated by what they saw.

'But isn't she pregnant?' confused, he asked, again. Mrs. Jansen immediately turned back, staring at him before she responded.

'Oh,' she said, an awkward look appearing on her face. 'Goodness, how should I explain? I don't believe the Company…' she lowered her voice, scanning around, making sure no one could hear them. The faint blush reappeared on her face. She shook her head. 'The Company would not appreciate me telling you this, for sure, certainly not in the castle.'

'How much English does _the Company_ understand?' holding back a smirk, Sherlock could hear Mrs. Jansen let out a small laugh, clearly amused by his comment on VOC's linguistic ability.

'Exactly,' she said, tittering quietly, before she moved her gaze away. She tended to do this when she was thinking, Sherlock noted, as he followed her indication to walk toward the outer walls, making sure no one would notice them. Once the crumbling low walls were beside them, he heard her let out a sigh, as she turned back to look at the people in front of the main keep. Sherlock looked in the direction of her gaze, waiting for her to begin.

'Do you see those women there, Mr. Holmes?' she began. Sherlock nodded in response, looking to the six women standing behind the men. They were almost equally fierce in their stance.

'They are all sisters or cousins, if there's any difference.' she continued. Sherlock frowned, whilst she went on. ' And the men are their brothers, and sons, except the oldest one. Can you see him from here? The one whose hair is half grey?'

'Yes, I can,' he murmured in response, eyes working on distinguishing each Formosan man from another. The oldest man was at the forefront, standing upright, almost two heads taller than the Company's soldiers.

'He is married to the oldest woman there. They are the only married couple in the family. Back then, the family only had a few sons. So when their oldest daughter became pregnant, their elders allowed the child of the father to marry into the family, taking their name, so that he became their son. Now he sits as one of the representatives of chieftains at the Company's annual assembly because the Company deems him to be the most influential man in Sinkan, being the oldest man of the most prominent family. But in fact, the real head of their house is his wife, and her sisters. As you may notice, they do all the talking.'

'I see,' he said, quietly, processing what he had just heard. If there was only one married couple, that must mean the rest of the women were all unmarried when giving birth to their children…

'Do you really?' his landlady let out a small sigh. 'A lot of men in the Company and even at line of the mission cannot come to terms with this, even after living here for years.'

'I suppose the Formosans just don't view marriage in the way we do. Why is it so hard to understand?' Sherlock sighed as well, leaning back against the broken wall. 'If seasons can reverse below the equator, ma'am, I'd like to think anything is possible under the sun. Don't you agree?'

'Not every man thinks as you do, Mr. Holmes,' Mrs. Jansen said, turning to rest against the wall next to him. She breathed out, somewhat heavily, concern transforming her face, as she continued to watch the family in front of the building.

'So, the wealth of a family goes to daughters, I presume? Since they carry the family name,' Sherlock asked, focusing on Mrs. Jansen beside him. She seemed troubled, obviously worried about what would happen next, as the number of on-looking soldiers increased.

'Land goes to the daughters, yes,' she uttered in reply. 'They do most of the tilling, after all.'

'And…because lands are inherited by daughters, as long as daughters can bear children, they don't need husbands, do they? Unless the family believe they are short of sons?'

'That is right.'

'And that girl, Saiyun, she's the only daughter they have, isn't she?'

'You observe correctly, Mr. Holmes,' she tilted her face to look at him. Her eyes sparkled. Sherlock felt a surge of warmth within his chest, as she looked at him. The sound of voices kept coming from the direction of the main keep. The air around the fortress became somewhat thicker.

'If…Saiyun is the only heir to their land,' he began, carefully laying out his conclusion, while Mrs. Jansen looked at him, her face remaining slightly red. 'Wouldn't it be risky to let her marry a Dutch solider? For the Company may claim that her husband now has rights over their land?'

'You actually start to think like a Formosan, Mr. Holmes,' Mrs. Jansen smiled, her voice as low as a whisper. 'It's not just that, though,' she breathed out. 'Formosans usually wait until their late thirties to have the first child and marry. Saiyun is too young for either of those…So, her family was not well pleased when they discovered…'

She wasn't able to finish her words, for the sound of rustling noise suddenly came from the other side of the parapet, making them both turn and be greeted by Saiyun's curious face. She was climbing on a young man's shoulders, leaning forward to crawl onto the wall on her hands and knees. The young man stayed on the lower ground, on the other side, until he made sure Saiyun was settled, and then climbed up onto the wall to sit next to her, giving them a timid smile.

' _Je was over mij aan het praten._ ' Saiyun began, dangling her feet over the wall, while the young man- Sherlock assumed he was her brother- still stared at them, shyly.

'Saiyun,' Mrs. Jansen exclaimed, grinning brightly, 'I was wondering where you were. And you, too, Kuyun,' she turned to the young man, who gave her a shy nod.

' _Goedendag_ , sena Molly,' he replied, a pair of dimples forming on his face, giving him a boyish look, despite the physique of a tall, sinewy young man.

'Aren't you going to introduce your friend?' Saiyun raised a finger to point at Sherlock. The way she tilted her head somehow reminded Sherlock of Archie.

' _Oh, ja, natuurlijk_ ,' Mrs. Jansen quickly responded, 'um…Saiyun, Kuyun, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He is my new tenant. I have leased my house to him whilst he stays here, studying in the gardens,' she said, quietly, and then turned to Sherlock.

'Mr. Holmes, this is Saiyun and Kuyun Tamapagowat of the clan of Sinkan. They're twins,' she finished with a nod. Sherlock immediately lifted his head.

' _Wat?_ ' he heard his voice blurting out, as he stared at the pair sitting on the low wall. 'You're twins?' he uttered, disbelievingly.

'Yes,' Saiyun answered with a frown. Her brother turned to look at her, his posture slightly alarmed.

'How old are you?' Sherlock questioned.

'Fifteen,' they spoke in unison.

'You don't look fifteen,' he muttered. _Neither of you do. I would have believed you had been ten years apart. Ten and twenty,_ he thought.

'Then you must have worms in your eyes,' Saiyun snorted ,irritably. Kuyun gave her a nudge with his elbow, which she answered with a slap on his arm. Mrs. Jansen cleared her throat.

'Mr. Holmes just isn't very good at judging age, Saiyun,' she cooed, gently, reaching out to remove her hand from her brother. 'He didn't mean to offend you. He doesn't know you.'

'Fine,' she glanced up, pouting at Sherlock. 'Sorry.' said she, still a little upset. Sherlock blinked a few time, staring blanking until he felt Mrs. Jansen's tentative gaze.

'Oh! Um… _het is goed_. I'm sorry, too,' he uttered, not entirely sure why he apologized, only that John Watson would probably tell him to do so, as he always did.

'You were talking about me,' Saiyun spoke flatly, staring at him and Mrs. Jansen. 'What did you say?'

'Mr. Holmes doesn't know your family,' his landlady said, giving her an assuring smile. 'I was telling him what happened.'

'About Fredrik?' blandly, she pouted, turning her face away. 'It won't work, you know.' she mumbled, tucking her knees in front of her. 'They won't let him out until he is beaten to his knees, on the ground. Asking them won't work. They won't listen to us. They never do. They only listen or pretend to listen when they have to. So why let Fredrik go if they already have him?' Slowly, she said, biting at each word with a knowing look on her face. The calm in her soft voice made Sherlock gape with surprise.

'We don't know that…' Mrs. Jansen tried to comfort her, but Saiyun only shook her head, leaning toward her brother, to rest on his shoulder, and closing her eyes. Her brother wrapped an arm around her waist, giving them a wry smile, before turning his attention to his family, in front of the main keep. Mrs. Jansen sighed, weakly, raising her face to peer at the thin clouds above. The chilly air of the morning had almost faded. Most of the castle was awake. More staff began to appear from the main gate, wide-eyed, asking what was going on, upon seeing the Tamapagowats blocking the entrance of the main tower.

Saiyun was right. There were no signs that anything would happen, at least not in their favour.

* * *

The whipping post was guarded by two senior soldiers. Fredrik Bos stood to attention, listening quietly to the sergeant reading out his crime and sentence, gaping in astonishment on hearing the number of lashes he would receive, staring at the sergeant through his scruffy ginger fringe until he spotted John, sitting across the yard.

 _He seemed in good shape_ , John noted, slightly relieved that at least the young man had not been beaten or starved while he had been in custody. Such things happened from time to time. But for now, John would rather not to think of what he had heard and witnessed during his time in the services. For the lad was staring at him, mouth open, as if he wasn't sure why John was here.

With a call, the sergeant ordered the two senior men to put the prisoner in position. The young man looked to John one more time, before he turned, willingly, to the post, removing his single shirt and leaning forward to be restrained. Staring at his bare back, John squinted, as he told himself not to look away, thinking he should probably have someone run back to his house to collect his case, after this was over. Judging by the number of lashes the lad was to recieve, the surgeon didn't expect the injury to be very severe. But it wouldn't be realistic to ask a man who'd just been flogged to walk down the path to his cottage for bandaging.

' _Één_ ,' a soldier called out, as the other struck. Only the sound of lashing could be heard. Bos was holding his breath. They usually did.

' _Twee_ ,' the whip whizzed loudly, before hitting the flesh. Still no noise was made. But he was about to. Because on the next strike, his skin would definitely break.

'Three,' another lash. The courtyard remained silent. John blinked, realizing the the solider had deliberately chosen to hit on his left shoulder, avoiding striking the same spot.

'Four,' the other one called out. John saw the one holding the whip turn to the right shoulder, raising his arm, only to be stopped by an urgent shout from the nearby corridor. A clerk ran into the courtyard, whispering to the sergeant and handing him a piece of paper with undried ink. The sergeant glanced at it, immediately raising a hand.

'Stop. Put down the lash, now.' he shouted to the men by the whipping post. 'Untie him.'

The two soldiers gaped. Even Bos turned to look over his shoulder. John jumped to his feet, rushing towards them, while the two men removed the restraints. The young lad struggled a little to stand upright. John could see the redness forming on his back and shoulder. Later, it would swell and bruise. But no blood was spilt, which means there wouldn't be scars. Lucky man.

'The deputy governor has pardoned you,' the older man said, showing Bos the signed paper.

'Why?' he blurted out. The sergeant tilted his head with a frown.

'Are you joking?' the senior man who had been in charge of the whip snorted out. 'If you like to be beaten, _Frits_ , I can always see to that.'

'But…'

'That's enough,' the sergeant glared at them, 'You should know this isn't the sort of business to be joke about. Restrain yourself.'

'Yes, sergeant,' the soldier muttered, a faint smile on his face.

'Dr Watson, would you take a look at his back?' the clerk said. 'The deputy governor is expecting him in a moment. The charge is on the Company, but quickly, please.'

'Certainly,' John responded, gesturing for the young man to turn around. 'Well, the skin isn't broken. So, for now, you just need to put some wet cloth on…'

'That can wait,' the clerk interrupted. 'Can someone fetch him some clean clothes? Maybe some water to clean up?' he looked to the other two soldiers. 'Please hurry. The deputy governor is entertaining his father-in-law. They're expecting him. And you too, Dr Watson.'

'I'll go.' the one still holding the lash spoke up, giving Bos a knowing smirk, while running away. 'Lucky bastard.'

'Wha-'

'You marry well,' the other laughed, turning to pick up the restraints and ask the sergeant if he could be excused, before he glanced back. 'I want a father-in-law like that, _Frits_.'

'But…' he murmured again, seeing the other solider left.

'I should leave you here, as well.' the sergeant said with a nod. 'God bless you, Fredrik Bos. Give our greetings to your father-in-law.' And then he sighed, walking away, leaving the young man staring blankly, first at his back, then to John and the clerk, unable to talk.

'But…' finally, he uttered with confusion, looking suspiciously at the clerk, 'I don't have a father-in-law.'

* * *

The Dutch appeared in this chapter:

Vergeef me= Forgive me

Natuurlijk= Naturally

Je was over mij aan het praten= You are talking about me

Goedendag= Good day

Oh, ja, natuurlijk= Oh, yes, of course

Wat= What

het is goed= it was fine

Translated by missClaraOswinOswald


	10. Chapter 9 First Day

Happy new year!

So, how are you, guy? This is the first post of the story in 2016, and the title happens to be ' _First Day_ '. A pure coincidence, but it makes me smile.

As always, my thanks go to my wonderful betas, thedragonaunt and missClaraOswinOswald, for they were so kind to beta this chapter during holidays. Credits and praises belong to them!

And in this chapter...

 _As new lives begin to settle in, Molly finds herself not coping as well as she had expected._

 _sherlollysherlollysherlollysherlollysherlollysherlollysherlollysherlollysherlollysherlollysherlolly_

 **Chapter 9 First Day**

'It was ridiculous.' Standing by the opened door of Molly's leased house, John shook his head and sighed heavily, as he watched Sherlock ruffling the papers on the writing desk near the parlour. Despite the unexpected incident with the Tamapagowats in the morning and the obligatory visit to the fortress staff afterwards, the botanist had already made some progress in his work, on the very first day. There was a small basket of fresh samples sitting next to the desk's legs. And from the appearance of his friend, muddy trousers and dirty face, the surgeon was glad that the gardens were to his satisfaction. Because it meant that he would remain on the island, at least for the time being.

'What was?' Sherlock mumbled back, crouching on the floor to lay out the leafy spray. John bit his tongue upon seeing this action. Molly wouldn't appreciate the mess in her house. But it wasn't his place to say.

'I believe Dr Watson was talking about the fact that they mistook the chieftain for Saiyun's father.' Molly emerged from the kitchen, hurrying to the table with a copper tea pot in her hands. 'Though I wouldn't be so surprised. That is typical of the Company. They tend to see things as they perceive them, especially when it comes to the Formosans.' She stopped to put down the boiling tea and three wooden mugs. Then she peeked at John. 'No offense, sir.'

'None taken. I'm not their man.' John simply shrugged and laughed. 'Uh! It's a shame, thought, that you were not there to witness it. Young Fredrik Bos was so confused when the deputy governor's man said his father-in-law was in the castle.'

'More confused when the flogging was halted?' Molly giggled, pouring out the dark, steaming liquid.

'Or when his wife slapped him in the face in public?' Sherlock cut in, snorting with amusement, hands still fumbling the wet branches on the floor. John couldn't help but chuckle, going to the table to grab one of the teas, before he moved one of the wicker chairs to block the front door, propping it open.

'Poor Fredrik,' Molly sighed deeply, as she walked to the writing desk to place the tea next to the scattered papers.'He seemed so happy to see Saiyun outside the tower. Who would have thought she blamed him for all that…Only minutes ago she was so worried about him.'

'Technically, it _was_ his fault,' Sherlock spoke, jumping to his feet to take the teacup. John saw Molly startled a little by his movement. 'And his wife knew it. No matter what her family might believe.'

'Yes, but…' Molly began, but her tenant simply went on, pushing her away from the desk while he shuffled the scribblings. John narrowed his gaze upon seeing this. But Molly simply stepped back. 'I feel sorry for him. Who would wish to be arrested at his own wedding?'

'Then he should have remembered his time to return.' Sherlock sneered, 'Seriously, what kind of soldier would forget that?' he laughed lightly, looking down at her, as he finally found the piece of paper he wanted and slowly reached for the mug on the desk. Taking a small sip, he gave his landlady a wide grin. Molly stared up at him, her hands twitching in the pinafore around her waist. John could hardly read her expression from where he was standing. But he knew _that_ face of his friend well enough. Sherlock enjoyed teasing people, especially when said people were not present.

'I did't know you held such high opinions of soldiers, Sherlock,' John cleared his throat, glaring at his friend and walking towards him, noticing his friend raising one of his eyebrows. 'But the reality is, my friend, it's not entirely unusual for soldiers and staff to overstay their leave. Only most of the time, they will turn up by themselves to beg for forgiveness, instead of being arrested. The Company really should have known better,' he shrugged, watching his friend's gaze narrowing before looking down at the mess he'd made. _He had collected quite a few white flowers_ , the surgeon noticed.

'Known better, you say?' Sherlock hummed, lowering the cup in his hand. 'How so? He is their man. Surely the arrest had to comply with…whatever regulations they abide by?'

'Yes, but there were also Formosans involved.' John inhaled deeply, looking towards Molly, who gave him a knowing smile. 'Which means there are boundaries. Things they just don't accept, including going uninvited to their events, such as weddings. Or arresting their people, of course'

'I do wonder who gave the order, though.' Molly said quietly, letting out a long, heavy sigh. 'Even though they considered Fredrik to be their man…Making the arrest in a Formosan clan is certainly unusual…if not unprecedented.'

'I can easily think of a handful,' John grunted with a shake of his head, recalling the aggressive stance of Captain Pedel in the council chamber earlier that morning. The chief of musketeers wasn't the only one who disapproved of the Company's policy towards the locals but he was definitely the most vocal. Speaking of whom…

'Is Archie now studying with Captain Pedel's son?' John asked, bearing his gaze to Molly, who gaped upon hearing his question.

'Yes,' she answered, ' Um…why do you ask?'

'No matter. I'm merely…it crossed my mind. That's all.' the surgeon shrugged, turning his attention towards the samples on the floor. 'It's a pity, though. I believe he would have liked to meet the Tamapogowats today. He is very fond of them, is he not? And these…' he pointed at the messy greenery next to where they stood. 'would be to his liking, I suppose.'

'It's true,' Molly muttered with a slight nod, glancing up to Sherlock. 'That is why I want him to go to the schoolroom today. It's earlier than Mrs. Pedel and I had agreed. But um…I believe it is better to have him stay out of the garden for now. Or else Mr. Holmes wouldn't be able to work,' she let out an awkward smile. John saw Sherlock immediately open his mouth.

'I wouldn't mind to having him around,' the botanist said, looking at his landlady with a frown. 'What made you believe he would be a bother? If he is really interests in what I am doing, then surely…'

'You met him last evening, sir,' Molly bit her lip, 'he was full of questions, curious about everything concerning you and your work. And…if I am not mistaken,' she continued, fingers clenched tightly together, 'you instructed in your letter that you would like to be undisturbed when you're working… _Absolute seclusion_ were the words you used.'

'Ah…' Sherlock gasped, inhaling deeply. 'I did say that, didn't I?' he smirked a little. 'When I wrote that letter, I was expecting the company I would encounter here to be less…adequate.'

John saw Molly's eyebrows rising. 'Adequate?' she said.

'He means he doesn't mind the boy standing close admiring him,' the doctor grinned broadly, folding his arms in front of his chest, while his friend tossing him a glare.

'Oh,' the mother paused, 'I see.'

'Perhaps you may still bring Archie with you sometimes?' John said, 'I mean to say, Molly, I've seen you take him to work for so many years. It is somehow odd now seeing you alone. A few in the castle were asking where the boy was.'

'They were?' Molly replied, sighing slightly and looking out of the window. She remained silent for several moments until she shook her head, saying she should leave them for it was about time to start making the evening supper. Sherlock scoffed out loud upon hearing her, pointing at the bright sky outside. But Molly simply nodded, hurrying to collect the empty teacups and the pot to return them to the small kitchen, before she left by the front door, closing it behind her.

* * *

'That was unfair,' Archie grumbled, rocking his chair at the dining table. Mrs. Hudson gave him a firm look and gestured for him to stop, but he ignored her, turning to Molly.

'I never met Kuyun and Saiyun in the castle before, mama,' he whined peevishly, lowering his face to poke at the strew on his plate, making the it click.

Molly pursed her lips mildly. Normally, she would chide the boy a little for playing with his food. But today she hadn't the strength to do so. It was his first day of school and her first day at work without him. She hadn't thought much during the day until leaving the fortress to make tea for Mr. Holmes and Dr Watson, when Mr. Holmes said he wouldn't mind having the boy around, watching and asking questions.

On hearing that, she could hardly ignore the sense of loss lumped up within her chest. She missed her son, foolishly but terribly. He was quite reluctant to go to the Pedels days early. But Molly had explained to him that, because Mr. Holmes's ship had arrived ahead of schedule and circumstances had changed, it would be better for him to start studying today. Archie wasn't happy about it. But he complied without much resistance, as he always did.

And now, she felt as if she had failed him. Had she known Mr. Holmes wouldn't care about him staying close, Molly would have brought him with her. Archie always enjoyed the gardens of the castle. And he was particularly disappointed this evening because he had learned about what happened to Saiyun and her family before he went home. Molly couldn't be certain what he had heard from the Pedels, for Captain Pedel was known for his attitude towards the locals, but it seemed all Archie cared was that he had missed them when they came to the town so unexpectedly.

'You can still come with me to the village this fortnight. Saiyun has just married. They should welcome more visitors,' Molly whispered, stroking her boy's hair. It felt oddly clean under her fingers. If he had come with her today, his hair would have been more greasy.

'I would like that,' the boy hummed in respond. Molly bit her lips, as he wolfed down his food. She could not recall any time when her son had been so hungry.

'Did you eat anything during the day?' she asked, wiping the gravy from his chin.

Archie shook his head, still gobbling. 'Tea.' he muttered. Molly frowned. Mrs. Hudson tutted, disapprovingly.

'Oh, we can't have that,' she hissed, standing up swiftly. 'You will bring a small pie tomorrow. I'll go and see if the stove is still burning. No, you stay here, Molly,' she raised a hand, gesturing for Molly to sit down. 'Mr. Holmes is about to come for supper. You stay here with Archie. I can't hear anything at the front door back in the kitchen.' With that, she left the dining room, stepping heavily on the wooden floor with her heels until Molly heard the squeaky door slam shut.

'Why does Mr. Holmes come for supper again?' Archie asked, putting down the spoon in his small hand.

'He's our tenant.' Molly replied, looking into her son's face in the dim candlelight. His brown eyes were sparkling. 'That means I shall do the housekeeping and provide his meals, twice a day.'

'Oh,' the boy grinned, looking up at Molly. 'Can I talk to him later? Did he cut anything from the gardens today?'

Molly couldn't withhold a sigh. Archie was so drawn to Mr. Holmes's profession. She really should have brought him with her today.

'I don't believe he'd mind if you ask,' she smiled, taking the empty plate and spoon from the table. 'But for now, you should have a quick sponge bath by the fire. Go and fetch your clean clothes while I put these away,' she patted his arm. In the faint light, she noted there were some ink stains on his fingers. Archie let out a mild protest but did as he was told. Molly closed her eyes, briefly, once he left the dining room. Archie rarely protested at having a bath, unless he was weary. And, for the first time that day, Molly felt she was quite worn out. All she really wanted, at the moment, was to carry her son upstairs and snuggle under the cover with him. as if he were still an infant.

* * *

'The display is different.' Sitting at the same place as last evening, Sherlock spoke quietly, chin directed towards the items on the mantel, when Mrs. Jansen entered the room, handing him the warm water- 'No tea!'- he had asked for.

'I gather the new one belongs to you?' he asked, glancing up at the small portrait standing on the mantelpiece. It was a portrait of a man. _A young looking man,_ he noted, _with a face a lot like Archie's. Must have been her late husband, the school master she had mentioned earlier in the day._

 _How dull and common it was._ He brooded, looking into the painting with a narrow gaze. The man in the picture had a small smile on his face. _What kind of man would smile while sitting for a portrait?_

Turning his gaze towards the chair in front of him, the botanist looked at the sleeping boy. He had been most enthusiastic when Sherlock came in for supper. He asked about his work and how he had found the gardens in the fortress, as well as complaining how exhausted the school had made him. It didn't take long before his eyelids began to droop.

Sherlock stared at him for a while, once he realised the child had stopped talking. Finishing his meal- venison stew with rice and a small piece of bread-, he studied Archie's small, sleeping figure for a moment. There were faded ink marks on his right hand and his face was freshly cleaned. The boy had just been washed before he arrived. Judging by the state of his clothing in general, it seemed that his mother kept a routine, washing him regularly, perhaps even daily. Which shouldn't have been a surprise, for he had noticed that a lot of people in Formosa seemed to maintain the habits of constant washing and bathing. Especially the Formosans he met today. Otherwise, it wouldn't be possible to remain so fresh and clean under the warm sun of the tropical winter.

 _So it must have been late, if the boy had already been washed and changed before I came_ , Sherlock reckoned. Mrs. Hudson had already retired to her room a quarter hour ago. And Mrs. Jansen, although she had heard of his question, was so weary that she barely gave him a response.

'Um?' the young woman raised her eyes, as she turned slowly and gently shook the sleeping boy's shoulders. Archie groaned a little, opening his eyes and lifting his arms to his mother, only to drag her down into the chair, while he fell asleep again.

'The portrait on the mantel,' Sherlock said, again, watching his landlady taking off her cap and seating herself in front of him with the boy in her arms. 'Does it belong to you? I didn't see it yesterday.'

She looked up from her son, confused, until her eyes fell upon the little silver framed painting. 'Oh,' she uttered. 'Ah…yes. Mrs. Hudson put it there, when I was gone. Very thoughtful of her.' She gave a broad smile, looking at the portrait for a few moments. Sherlock noticed her embrace seemed to tighten around the boy. _An affectionate gesture_ , he recognized, recalling the awkwardness Mrs. Jansen had shown whilst mentioning her late husband this morning. _The man in the portrait must have been very precious to her when he was alive_ , Sherlock thought, inhaling deeply.

'Archie has his look,' he said, pressing his lips together. Not entirely sure why he cared to bring up the obvious.

'Yes, he does,' the mother smiled widely, stroking the sleeping boy gently. Archie groaned, flipping himself in her arms until his chest was pressed forward against hers, arms around her neck. 'His look, his way of talking and everything.'

'You are very proud of that,' he heard himself saying, stating the obvious, again. Mrs. Jansen let out a chuckle.

'I am,' her smile widened. From the flickering light of the fire, Sherlock could see the dimples forming on her cheeks, as she looked up again at the portrait on the mantelpiece.

'How very…' he heard himself begin, a sneer escaping his lips. 'Dear…and I must say, typical of the affection you hold. Seeking resemblance in you son to console the loss of you husband. How very…'

'I don't believe it is any of your concern, Mr. Holmes,' she frowned, raising her voice slightly. 'Whether I seek solace from my child or not.'

'It isn't,' Sherlock remarked, smirking as he went on, 'I merely wish to say that the sentiment here is quite-'

'And if you must know,' she cut in, chewing her lip, as she stared at him. 'If you must know, Mr. Holmes, that portrait isn't Tom's. It's my father's.'

Sherlock opened his month. _Oh,_ he heard himself whispering.

'Your father,' he said, glancing up at the mantel once again, taking in the shape of the man's brown eyes.

'Archibald Hooper was his name,' she whispered, boring her eyes into his. 'I named my son after him. So yes, you can say I do take solace from my child, for the loss I have endured.'

There was a crack in her tone, making Sherlock freeze in his seat. He stared at the woman sitting before him, watching her closely. Her arms wrapped tightly around the boy. Her breath was steady and loud, contrary to the boy's small heaves. Her gaze, although seeming calm as it seemed, was blinking very slowly, as if focused entirely on him. She glared at him, with her head slightly tilted to the side. All of a sudden, Sherlock found himself unable to speak. He opened his mouth several times, without making a squeak, until Archie groaned and moved again in his mother's arm.

'It's quite unconventional to name the first son after the maternal grandfather,' he heard the words came escape from him, not knowing why he had said that.

'Archie was born less than a year after my father passed,' she choked when she spoke, clearing her throat while looking down at the boy, stroking her palms on his back. 'I was still grieving at the time. So Tom…agreed.'

'I see,' Sherlock said, listening to the small whimpers the boy was making on his mother's shoulder. 'It was…'

'I believe it's about time to bid you goodnight, Mr. Holmes,' Mrs. Jansen interrupted, shaking her head with her eyes shut, as she moved unsteadily onto her feet with Archie in her arms. The chair squeaked against the floor, while she carefully took small steps carefully towards the staircase. One of Archie's arms fell from her shoulder.

'Ma'am,' Sherlock reached out, steadying the boy's small frame. His mother sighed, giving him a tight smile.

'Goodnight, Mr. Holmes. It has been a long day,' she said, resuming stalking towards the stairs. But Sherlock didn't let go. Instead, he grabbed the boy under his shoulders and took him in his arms, before turning back to his mother, as she regained her balance. Then without a word, he turned to the staircase and made his way to the first floor, with the sound of Mrs. Jansen's heavy footsteps following behind him.

* * *

Molly could hardly believe what had happened. Mr. Holmes had just taken her son from her arms without asking, then climbing upstairs ahead of her with no intension of seeking permission. Following closely behind, she realized neither of them was holding a light. But Mr. Holmes moved as if he could see in the dark. Jumping swiftly to the top of the stairs, he turned left, pushing directly into Archie's room before he paused to search for the bed. It didn't take him long to put the boy down, while Molly fumbled at the small desk, next to the bed for the lamp and flints.

'How do you know which room…?' she hissed into the darkness, feeling the sharp edge of the flints beneath her palms. But Mr. Holmes's large hand brushed hers away, taking the flint stone from her, then began to make the light. Within seconds, the lamp was lit. Light filled the room slowly. Molly blinked several times, when her vision became clear. Mr. Holmes was rubbing at the glass of the lamp with his sleeves, making the light flicker.

'It's not difficult to tell from the layout of the house. I surmised there are two rooms on the first floor. And Archie ought to take the smaller one.'

'Impressive,' Molly muttered, tiptoeing to the bed in front of her, where the boy slept soundly, unaware of anything happening around him. 'But I am perfectly capable of carrying him to bed. There's really no need to…'

'Including climbing the stairs?' he spoke with hesitantly, stepping to stand across the single bed, looking down on her, intensely. 'There are no stairs in your house, ma'am. I don't doubt that you have done this before, only in a different house.'

'Really, Mr. Holmes,' Molly began, but the man merely snorted.

'More efficient this way, ma'am. I believe you owe me the expressed gratitude.'

She sighed, listening to Archie's even breath. 'Thank you,' she said, looking up at him with a faint smile, then reaching down to take off Archie's boots. Mr. Holmes lifted the boy once again, after she had done, letting her pull the cover over the boy and tuck him in. Archie whimpered a few times, while being moved, grabbing Molly's hand tightly after she drew the blanket over him.

'He really is worn out.' Molly whispered. 'First day of school. And he insisted on waiting for you. So curious about your work and not convinced by what I can tell him.'

Mr. Holmes stiffened beside her.

'Apologies,' he let out a long breath, 'I was too drawn to the new samples. He shouldn't have waited.'

'Perhaps you could come earlier next time?' Molly glanced up at him, shaking her head. 'Or I can have Archie bring you a basket when you choose to work late. He wouldn't mind that, I suppose,' she hummed quietly, stroking the boy's head with her free hand.

'That would be fine,' he said, looking down at Archie for a moment, before he turned to Molly. Molly gazed at him. His eyes were bloodshot.

'You should go now,' she inhaled, deeply. 'It's late. And as much as I appreciate the help you offered, sir, it isn't appropriate for you to be here.'

'Appropri-' he sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead then walking towards the door. 'Then it's goodnight, I suppose.'

'Goodnight, sir.' Molly said quietly, as he turned to step into the stairwell.

She returned her gaze to Archie, who was still holding her hand in his sleep, until she heard the sound of Mr. Holmes's footsteps returning.

'Shouldn't you be come down with me, Mrs. Jansen,' he halted by the door, his long figure appeared exceptionally slim in the dark. 'To bolt the door behind me, I mean.'

'I can do it later.' Molly smiled, nodding, as she spoke. 'And Provintia isn't the sort of place where one needs to lock your doors, Mr. Holmes. You can leave your doors and windows open at night, if you don't mind finding monkeys in your kitchen next morning.'

He burst into laughter. Archie turned in his bed.

'Thanks for the warning, ma'am,' he chuckled, looking at the boy in bed and then turning away from the door to the stairs again.

'Goodnight, Mrs. Jansen,' he said in the darkness beyond the door.

'Goodnight, Mr. Holmes,' Molly whispered, unsure of whether he could hear he until his started to step into the stairwell, made his way slowly downstairs then left, with a slight creak of the front door.


	11. Chapter 10 To the Village

Hello! Happy Lunar New Year!

As I presume most of you guys already know, this AU story is set in my island: The island of Formosa, which is more widely known as Taiwan nowadays but in fact both names are still being used and recognized. And recently, we are celebrating the lunar new year! The official time for celebration varies every year for it is determined by lunar calendar. It extents from the new year eve to 15th January. So it's quite a long time. Although most people have already gone back to work, the celebration has to wait until 15th, when the first full moon of the year appears in the sky, to call it an end.

The 15th January in lunar calendar is tomorrow. So It's still not too late to wish you a happy lunar new year:)

Right, so back to the story then. In this chapter...

 _More developments of the relationship between Sherlock and Molly-and Archie!_

As usually, this chapter was betaed by the one and only amazing thedragonaunt and the wonderful and most supportive missClaraOswinOswald! Hails and cheers for both of them! And all mistakes are on me.

* * *

 **Chapter 10 To the Village**

The gardens and the working conditions in Fort. Provintia were far more enjoyable than Sherlock would have expected. Despite being a military facility, the fortress - with only less than 300 soldiers, officers, and staff posted inside - was rather slow paced and quiet, especially in the area of the botanical gardens. The only disturbances during the day were the occasional gunshots and shouts of command coming from the far end of the castle, where soldiers performed their routine drill training in the firing range.

In the gardens, there were two small sheds. Clean and well maintained gardening tools were all organized and stored in the smaller one. The other one had been cleared for his particular use by Mrs. Jansen, who had a table placed inside at his request, so that he could work on the samples directly from the gardens, without going back to the cottage.

The garden itself was another story. It wasn't big (though its northern side had extended beyond the broken walls of the castle.) Nor did it look exactly tidy, to an amateur's eyes. From the shed where he worked, constant complaints from staff, officers and their wives could be heard whenever any of them chose to walk in the shade of greenery. But most of them seemed to agree that, as far as exoticism was concerned, the gardens were a real charm, much to Sherlock's confusion. For him, the location of each plant was simply where it needed to be. High ground was for those with better tolerance of drought. Low ground was for the ones requiring moist soil. Beneath the leafy shade, there were the kinds with better shade tolerance. And tied to the trunks, right beneath the canopy of the tall branches, were various kinds of orchids with roots wrapped in hemp nets. Sherlock had never seen anyone keeping orchids like this. And, when he inquired of Mrs. Jansen, she told him it was suggested by the locals when the gardens were first built because keeping orchids' roots hanging in the air made them more likely to survive.

And survive they did, survive and thrive. Sherlock had never seen so many different kinds of orchids in his life, with colours ranging from crimson to yellow then to deep blue. And what intrigued him even more was that they didn't seem to need much tending. Working in the gardens for almost two weeks, he'd only seen Mrs. Jansen causally spraying water on their roots once. According to her, during summer days they didn't even need to be moistened at all.

'I suppose the Company would like to commercialize them. People would pay a lot of money to have this kind of exotica displayed in their parlour,' he said at that time, noticing his landlady seemed unsurprised by the question.

'They tried,' she smiled, with a small shrug. Sherlock could hear the concealed snort in her voice. 'But the corms are too small and unable to survive for long,' she tilted her head, grinning broadly at him, making him smile back.

'Not profitable at all, I see,' he sighed, dramatically. 'What a shame. Perhaps I should work on cultivating a new kind with a stronger corm. Should be good for business,' he said and gazed at her, watching the subtle change in her face, as her smile burst into laughter.

'Oh, Mr. Holmes,' she tittered, as she spoke, 'as if you're the kind to care about business,' she pursed her lips, shaking her head slightly.

'Am I not?' Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'How would you know, pray tell?'

She didn't answer, only smiled once again and turned back to her work. Sherlock couldn't resist smiling, before heading back to the shed to resume his work, secretly grateful that she didn't see him doing so. They didn't speak again that afternoon but, for the rest of the day, the botanist felt his mood somehow lightened up.

Since his arrival, countless people had, intentionally or otherwise, commented on his occupation. Most of them didn't know much about the nature of his work yet seemed to believe that Sherlock could make profit from what his was doing. Others seemed to considered him as a mere spoilt brat from a privileged background who liked play scientist. Neither of those kind of people bothered him the least- _Like I'm not already used the cynicism_ \- , but he was glad that at least Mrs. Jansen, the one who provided him lodging and worked with him in the gardens, was excluded from those categories.

 _Later I shall invite her to see the finished illustrations of the magnolias from her garden_ , looking out of the window from the table, he decided privately.

But that was the last time he had a chance to speak to her properly. For, just before he began to feel it was time to return to his house, a lad from the tower ran into the gardens and loudly announced that Mrs. Jansen was summoned to see to the infirmary. Because ' _the surgeon has an errand to run_ '.

And that was three days ago. Since then, he had rarely glimpsed his landlady. She didn't return to the gardens before dusk, when Sherlock realized he couldn't wait any longer or it would be too dark for him to walk. Not long after he returned to the cottage, Archie brought him a basket and told him that his mother had sent words that she would remain in the castle for the night. Apparently the surgeon of the castle had more than _a_ mere errand to attend to and the Company didn't care to have any extra staff to cover duties in the infirmary. 'Surgeons like to stay in Zeelandia,' the boy said with a pout. Clearly, he was quite upset that his mother had been called away.

So Sherlock let him stay in the cottage while he ate, listening to the boy talking about the clan of Sinkan which they'd already decided to visit at the end of the week. He and Archie had established a routine whereby, during supper, he would tell the child what he had done during the day. Most of the time, they talked by the fire in Mrs. Hudson's parlour but sometimes, when the boy brought a basket to the cottage, the botanist would let him sit at his desk. He found it oddly relaxing when he explained illustrations from books or simply answered the boy's endless questions. A couple of times, Archie fell asleep while he was talking and Sherlock had to carried him back to his mother and tucked him into bed. Mrs. Jansen seemed quite embarrassed by it but Sherlock enjoyed seeing her awkward smile.

But that night, instead of taking the sleeping boy back to Mrs. Hudson- who would be already past out for the count after her nightly soother of rice wine mixed with sweet cinnamon water-, Sherlock carried Archie to the smaller bedroom of the cottage, placing him on the bed, then went to his own bedroom to fetch the cover.

He stared at the boy's sleeping form for quite a while, by the flickering glow of the candle, until one drop of burning wax hit his finger and almost made him drop the light. Cursing silently, he knelt down and placed the candlestick on the floor before wiping the drying liquid off his hand.

 _Thankfully Archie is asleep,_ he thought, musing on how the boy would laugh then ask to play with the soft wax, as he had done once before, when Sherlock accidentally spilled the cooling liquid on from the base of the candlestick onto the papers.

'It feels like warm clay,' Archie had said at that time, after Sherlock showed him how to hold the candle at an angle to burn and melt the wax down, so that the boy could hold it in his palms. 'Mama never lets me touch it,' he said gleefully. 'So we must not tell her,' requested the boy, accordingly.

And Sherlock agreed. He had clean Archie's hands carefully, before taking him home that night, only to be chided by Mrs. Jansen, the next afternoon after Mrs. Pedel told her that Archie had tried to show little Thomas how to play with candles, in the schoolroom.

'I thought he was there to see how you work, Mr. Holmes,' she said, pursing her lips while eyeing him with concern.

'He was _,_ ' Sherlock muttered in response, blinking and trying to keep his gaze from slipping away from the young woman's questioning brown eyes. He then uttered an apology and promised to never do it again. The feverish blush forming on his cheeks must have been caused by sheer embarrassment, although he could hardly dismiss the the fresh scent of flowers coming from her cap and the wisp of her auburn hair escaping from the ivory frills, to hang at the nape of her neck.

The memory of that moment made his cheeks warm once again.

Leaning forward to pat the boy's messy hair, the botanist smiled with a gentle sigh. _Archie hadn't been washed today_ , he noted, not entirely sure why he should think of that.

Picking up the candle from the floor, Sherlock rose up, glancing around the room before he headed to the door.

Then something caught his eye. Next to the bed against the wall, there stood a rather large wooden chest. The chest Mrs. Jansen had left there because there wasn't enough space in Mrs. Hudson's storage room.

A camphor chest.

Without a second thought, he tiptoed over to the box and lifted the unlocked lid, looking down inside, as the sharp fragrance of camphor assailed his nostrils .

Dark.

Dark clothing, in fact.

Bringing the candle close to the chest, Sherlock pulled out a thick woollen cape. The coarse fabric made his hand sweat. Never in his short stay on the island had he seen anyone ever wear anything this heavy- _and it was December_ \- suggesting that the cape was likely to have been brought here from Europe.

Beneath the dark cape there were other pieces - shirts, trousers, kerchiefs and other small items. Nothing luxurious but very well-kept, despite it being obvious that they hadn't been worn for at least…three to five years.

Reaching down for one of the folded shirts, Sherlock ran his fingers over the stitchings of its collar, recognizing the fine needlework, exactly the same quality as the needlework at the edge of the curtains in his bedroom.

 _These must belong to Archie's father_ , Sherlock concluded. Putting the shirt and the cape back, he carefully closed the heavy lid of the chest but still caused a loud sound of _thud._ Holding his breath, he stared down at the boy in the bed and saw him groan in his sleep, tossing and turning under the cover. Stroking his hand over Archie's messy hair and watching him settle down, Sherlock sighed once again, louder this time. In the dim light, he could see the meticulous stitching around the boy's round neck shirt, neatly sewn and almost invisible on the white fabric as though the seamstress merely put the cloth together by gently touching it.

'Good morning, Mr. Holmes,' Molly greeted her tenant by the fence of Mrs. Hudson's gardens. It was a typical bright winter morning in Formosa and she was about to deliver the meal to the cottage. But instead of still being in his bedroom, as usual, Mr. Holmes was already fully clothed and seemed to be waiting for her by the gravel path. Blinking to adjust her gaze under the sun, Molly smiled, noticing the two long sticks in his hands.

'I see you've prepared walking sticks, sir,' she said, taking in his full attire. It was clear that Dr Watson had instructed him what to wear when it came to traveling to the village. He wore a different boots and had put on an extra short grey outer cloak, the piece she'd only seen him wear on the first day he arrived at Provintia.

'I wasn't sure about the condition of the road, ma'am,' he smiled back. Sparks of expectation glittered in his eyes. Obviously he looked forward to the trip awaiting them. Molly found herself grinning more widely.

'That's very wise. I wouldn't say the conditions of the road is bad, sir, but new comers do sometimes complain about being worn out when they first travel upon it. They said it is because of the air and the sun are different in Formosa. Heavier, so they say.'

'So I heard,' he gave a slight sigh, fingers fiddling with the sticks in his grasp. 'Archie and John both mentioned as much. Speaking of Archie, has he woken up yet? He was very excited last evening about the trip today.'

'He will be joining us after finishing his meal…Oh!' Molly exclaimed, suddenly recalling she was still carrying the basket containing Mr. Holmes's morning meal. 'I forget you haven't eaten, Mr. Holmes. Uh…Would you like to come inside so that you could…'

'No need,' he shrugged nonchalantly, 'I already had pie and tea, left over from yesterday. It'd be best if you saved the…' he reached out and grabbed Molly's arm to draw her closer, flipping the basket opened to see what she had inside, '…freshly baked bread, taros and sweet potatoes for later. Although I wouldn't mind to…' he gently squeezed at her arm, fumbling into the basket with his other hand to pick up one of the yams for a casual nibble.

Molly gave a weak laugh.

'Mr. Holmes,' she sighed, but the man, still leaning towards her, simply raised his brow and blinked.

'Um?' he gazed at her, a smirk emerging at the corner of his chewing mouth.

'Are you aware that you behave so much like Archie?' she chuckled, pursing her lips to suppress the sound of a titter, only to realize that the man, despite somehow arrested by her comment, didn't seem to let go of her arm.

'I suppose so, Mrs. Jansen,' he murmured. The proximity between them made his hum sound like hovering bees.

'Mister…'

'It must be very tiring, mustn't it? Staying in the castle for infirmary duty. You look exceptionally pale this morning.' He drew back from her a little and finally let go of her arm but didn't step away.

'It was. But I'm well and…'

'You hair falls loose,' he said suddenly, leaning forward once again, this time towards the back of her neck.

'Sir?'

'Sometimes you have a small wisp of hair falling loose from your cap. I always notice,' he murmured to her cap, swallowing down the last bit of taros in his mouth.

'You're very aware of details, Mr. Holmes,' Molly whispered, sensing her cheeks burning up. Biting her lip, she stared straight towards the empty path, feeling his breath touching the nape of her neck before her instincts made her stepping forward.

Stumbling to the edge of the glittering path, Molly turned around then blurted out. 'Shall we go? Archie? Archie!' She raised her voice to call for the boy, hearing him calling back and running in the house, grumbling about having not yet finished his meal. But Molly didn't want to listen, calling him again and stepping briskly onto the quartz gravels. 'Hurry up! Don't you remember we have to meet up with Dr. Watson and Frederik in the fortress first?' she hissed, immediately aware of the slight tremor in her voice, as she looked towards the front door, seeing the Mr. Holmes's blue…greenish eyes boring into hers, blinking slowly while the man himself pressed his lips together, swallowing down whatever it was on the tip of his tongue.

* * *

So, as it went, this chapter is more like a fill-in. But I feel it's rather essential to make a few notes about how their relationship went! Please feel free to leave a comment:)


	12. Chapter 11 Flushed

Hi, I'm back! It's been a while since I last updated. Apologies for that!

As usually this story is betaed by thedragonaunt and missClaraOswinOswald(xxx)!

missClaraOswinOswald alway helps me with the **Dutch dialogue** in this story. And needless to say, this chapter contains some of that just to make it feel more in the period!

The translations is at the end of the chapter!

* * *

 **Chapter 11 Flushed**

The best way to tell whether or not a soldier had a family or not was to see how he behaved upon going on leave. Those with little or no attachment stormed straight to the pier and the ferry to Zeelandia, where women and liquor were more readily available. Others, on the other hand, smartened themselves up and made sure they had something- rationed bacon, rice wine, sugar, linen or maybe some simple guavas- to present before seeing their wives.

But in special cases like Fredrik Bos, the soldier who married the heiress of the most powerful Formosan family of the nearest clan of Sinkan, that 'something' he had prepared, was somehow different from those of the others'.

 _'Mijn God!_ ' John Watson exclaimed loudly, upon seeing the gingered young man in blue uniform appear from the storage barracks near the main keep. The former army surgeon had expected him to be rather…packed with luggage. But never had he dreamt it would be in such abundance. The young soldier had a large basket on his back, the kind of basket John had only seen carried by the locals, fully loaded with…two, no three bales of muslin and silk, at least four or five bundles of colourful threads, a few packages of sugar, some packages of other things he couldn't recognize…together with a large jar of rice wine and a bamboo tube in each hands. But those weren't what made John raise his eyebrows…

'You're carrying guns,' the surgeon bit out, staring at the four long muskets on the other man's back. Two of them clearly were new. The Company had, despite most officers' disapproval, begun to sell firearms to the Formosans ten years ago, ever since the clan of Sinkan helped them to quell the uprising of the Chinese near Provintia. So it shouldn't be a surprise to see wealthy Formosans, such as those Fredrik was related to, obtain newer and better kinds of muskets - way better than they could possible need for hunting. But that wasn't what made John frown.

It was the other two - older - guns. The ones which belonged to the army.

'This one is mine,' Fredrik said, pointing to one of the old muskets behind his back.

Right, so he had permission to bring his musket out of the castle during his leave. Then…

'How about that one?' John asked.

Fredrik simply shrugged.

'Sergeant said it's fine to borrow. Better than let it rust in the storehouse.'

' _Wat?_ ' John couldn't help but spit, lifting his face in disbelief.

'Don't make such a fuss, Dr Watson,' the young man looked at him and smiled. 'It's not just me. The sergeant also borrows guns when he goes to see his wife. There's always a chance to go hunting with relatives when…Oh!' he suddenly stopped talking, turning around to put down everything on his back, and looked inside the basket, fumbling urgently as if he'd forgotten something. Then he gasped out in relief, pulling out a couple of bayonets, a box of gunpowder and a few powder cases. Straightening himself up, he smiled again, as he put the basket and muskets back on his back.

'At least you buy your own gunpowder, I hope?' John sighed, watching the soldier adjusting his baggage.

' _Misschien._ '

'Maybe?' John heard himself growl.

'Um…sometime,' the young man bit his lip, rolling his eyes up.

'Sometimes?'

'Sometimes, yes. When there's no surplus from the firing range. Gunpowder can easily catch damp, Dr Watson. Better to take it home than to waste it.'

'Ik geloof het niet…' John murmured, as he shook his head. 'Do you know this could have you jailed for at least…I don't know. Several years.'

'But everybody does it,' Fredrik shrugged again, then grinned at John, blinking innocently. The surgeon could only open his mouth, stepping away and shaking his head.

'Right, at least you don't take any musket balls with you…'

'I did once. But-'

'But what?' John raised one of his eyebrows again, folding his arms in across his chest. The young soldier opened his mouth and looked at the surgeon for a moment, before he bit his lip and swallowed.

' _Niets_ ,' he said, beginning to move toward the main gate.

'What happened when you took the bullets home, Fredrik?' Catching up with him, John reached out, offering his hand to take a jaw of the rise wine. Fredrik turned to look at him, eyes glancing upwards, before he chuckled.

'Nothing serious,' he shrugged, as he walking towards the gate. 'Just that they…I mean Saiyan's brothers keep saying the lead I use cracks easily. So they prefer to mould the balls themselves,' he sneered slightly and cleared his throat. 'They fuss a lot over musket balls. One time I even heard them saying I must have fallen asleep while I did the moulding…so…'

John felt his jaw drop. 'What did they mean the lead cracks easily?' he asked. 'Does that mean the lead we have is worse than that in the market?'

'I don't think so,' Fredrik replied absent-mindedly, looking straight up the path in front of him, as he moved. 'They just like to fuss, probably making fun of me. I was trying to impress them, you see. Because Saiyun was just…' he turned to cast John a _look_. 'Anyway, they prefer their bullets heavy and sometime mix iron with lead. The balls I moulded just weren't to their liking.'

John gaped, as the young man finished his statement with a pout and stepped out through the fortress's main gate, disregarding of the surgeon following behind him. With a long sigh, the older man caught up to him once again, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling of knowing not only that the discipline of the army's men was slipping, but also that the Company had begun to lose track of the quality of their supplies. Because, during those trying years spent working with the Company's musketeers, John had learned that the musket balls would only crack under two circumstances. One was if the man who moulded them was too careless and let the metal balls contain too many bubbles. The other was if the lead of the balls wasn't pure enough, probably mixed up with lighter materials, such as tin. And…for the love of the Almighty, John could only hope it wasn't the latter that had made those bullets Fredrik _took_ break so easily. Otherwise, the army would need a great deal of luck to quell the next - hopefully never coming- uprising of the Chinese workers in Formosa.

* * *

'Haven't you already drawn the magnolia, Mr. Holmes?'

Standing under the leafy shade of the massive magnolia tree by the road, Sherlock tore his eyes away from the branches above his head, as Archie tugged on his sleeve. The boy was trying to keep his balance while he stood on the tree's tangled roots, with his free arm swinging accordingly. Sherlock grabbed his hand by instinct, pulling the boy towards his torso so that he could lean on him, keeping him from stumbling.

'I have. I've just never seen a fully grown magnolia tree.' Sherlock muttered, reaching up toward the branches far above. They were all beyond his reach, much to his disappointment.

On the other side of the tree, Mrs. Jansen's voice called out to them. 'It's no different from the one in your backyard, Mr. Holmes,' she said, as she approached the shade. John and the young soldier followed behind her, apparently ready to take a break under the tree.

 _Yes, I can see that_ , Sherlock brooded silently, looking up again, focusing on the white petals at the tips of the branches, while he tapped gently on Archie's shoulder. The boy looked up at him, blinking expectantly. Sherlock cracked a smile, pointing to the nearest branch, and pulled out a knife from his side bag. 'Can you cut off one of the sprigs for me, Archie? Preferably with more flowers.'

'Aye!' Archie grinned happily, raising up his arms to allow Sherlock to lift him up to straddle his shoulders, before he took over the knife, pointing at one of the twigs above his head. 'This one?'

'Perhaps the one on that side. Can you reach it?' asked Sherlock, patting the boy's leg.

'A little higher! Can I stand up, Mr. Holmes?' the boy called from above. Sherlock couldn't help but sigh, glancing aside to the mother, who was staring at them with concern etched into her face.

'Ah…wait,' the botanist grumbled, noting that Mrs. Jansen began to bite her lip and folded her arms across her chest, as he reached up to grab the boy's waist, lifting Archie up to stand on his left shoulder and wrapping his arms around the boy's legs.

The child cheered when he straightened himself up, swinging his arms, as he started to cut at the branches. 'There you go!' he giggled, as the leafy sprig with white flowers fell on Sherlock's head, before he turned to another. 'How about this?' he laughed, as he cut another branch, then again…then another…

'Alright, that's enough!' Sherlock raised his voice, shaking his head slightly to get the leaves and white petals off his hair and face, before he leant forward to put the boy down safely. Archie protested mildly, as he lost the height, then complained even louder when Sherlock took the knife from his grasp.

'Didn't I say one sprig?'

'He likes to cut,' his mother said, pulling the boy to her. 'And being hold up high to cut is just…' she paused and sighed, looking up at Sherlock, smiling nervously. 'Why do you need these sprigs, sir? This tree is exactly the same as the tree in your back garden.'

'I suppose it wouldn't hurt to take a closer look,' Sherlock inhaled deeply, kneeling down to pick up the sprigs of the leaves and flowers scattered among the tree roots, laying them on his palms. Mrs. Jansen was right. They are exactly the same as those with which he'd become very familiar, except the scent of the flowers was a little lighter because they hadn't fully bloomed. He rose to his feet and glanced at his landlady once again. She was stepping over the roots with Archie to join John and Fredrik Bos on the other side of the tree shade. The two men had just put down their luggage. Fredrik Bos was distributing water from a bamboo tube. He brought a cup which was obviously chopped from the same tube of stem, offering it to Archie first, then his mother.

' _Meneer, u moet wat drinken_ ,' the young soldier called up to Sherlock, pointing at the water. 'Mr. Holmes?'

'No, I'm fine.' Sherlock murmured in response, leaning back against the trunk and still looking at the mother and son who were settling down to sit under the shade. Mrs. Jansen was wiping Archie face with a kerchief, while the boy fidgeted about.

'Don't bother. Never mind him, Fredrik,' John sneered lightly, taking over the cup to pour water for himself. 'He doesn't like to be told what to do. Just let him be. If he wants water he'll ask,' the surgeon rolled his eyes. 'Or just take.'

'But he could have heat stroke. That has happened to new guests before, especially in winter. I don't want anyone I bring to the village to be ill. Or else…'

'Mr. Holmes is my guest, Fredrik,' Mrs. Jansen gently interrupted him. She looked towards Sherlock with a smile. 'I invited him. So it's fine. He's a scientist and knows what he needs,' she said and turned back to Archie. The boy was fumbling in the basket she brought, looking for food. Sherlock smiled guiltily at the boy's confusing grunts because the sweet yams he was particularly fond of had already been eaten up by the botanist himself. His smile was met by a knowing look from his landlady, who shook her head and sighed at him, as she noted that Sherlock's smile was widening. She then turned away to talk to John and the young soldier about some recent news from the village of Sinkan, which was mostly about Bos' quick tempered wife Saiyun. It seemed that their unborn child would be the first born in her family in over a decade. And the elders prayed for a girl.

 _What a completely different world it was_ , Sherlock thought, watching his companions, as he dropped his head backward, fiddling with the flowers and leaves in his hand. The sound of their conversations was blurred by the winds brushing through field and in the crown of the magnolia tree. White flowers fell in front of him, making him distractedly reached to ruffle his head, checking if there were any leaves and flowers still tangled in his hair.

 _Perhaps I should take a look at the thick underbrush beyond the shade, while they were all resting_ , he thought distractedly, but quickly dismissed the idea. Mrs. Jansen and John -especially John - had warned him repeatedly never go into the forest unless he had a local accompanying him. And although Sherlock initially snorted at such a notion, he did agree that it was almost impossible for him to go into the unfamiliar woods alone. For, not only was the light there too dim to see clearly and there were always warning of the threats of wild animals - bears, boars, sika deer, even monkeys could be dangerous -, but also the underbrush and vines in the forest covered literally every inch of the ground, making it impossible for anyone to enter without a proper knife in hand. The kind of cleaver knife worn by every Formosan man still served as the ideal tool to chop down all the tough bushes and vines offered by the island, even after they had long ceased to function as weapons to chop off their enemies' heads.

Which was why, after peace was secured decades ago between the Company and the nearby clans, the Formosans were still unwilling to give - not to mention sell - their knives to anyone other than each other. And the Company, out of concern for the cost, never seemed to consider making any kind of thicker cleaver knives on the island, making it impossible for Sherlock to obtain the most appropriate tool -despite numerous alternatives - to explore the forest on his own, much to his disappointment.

The sound of cracked branches brought his attention back under the shade. By instinct, Sherlock looked towards the group of people on the other side of the tree. He soon realized they had all fallen into silence. Archie was on his back spreading his arms and legs, rolling around as through he couldn't decide if he wanted to take a nap or not. John was snoring faintly, fast asleep as he always was. The young soldier, on the other hand, was sitting aside and organizing his luggage, separating the weapon supplies from the other valuables he had. _There was no way he could possibly afford all of those on his own wages_ , Sherlock noted, as he smirked, his gaze searching in the direction of Archie, only to realize that Mrs. Jansen wasn't there.

Another cracking sound made Sherlock jerk slightly from where he sat. Tearing his gaze away, he turned to look over his shoulder and listen carefully to the sound from behind the tree. Without a thought, he rose to his feet and tiptoed around, one of his handd\s still holding the sprigs he'd just acquired, carefully keeping his balance, as he walked over the tangled roots.

He was met by the back of his landlady, as she put down a small bamboo tube full of water and began to loosen the very top of her bodice a little so that she could wipe her neck thoroughly. Her cap was also removed, as she lowered herself to sit on one of the thicker roots. Letting out a few sighs, she quickly cleaned herself, moistening the cloth several times from the water tube, before straightening up her clothing.

Sherlock could only stare, unsure of what to do. Standing behind her for a few moments, he heard his heart pounding wildly within his chest. Biting on his lip, he removed his gazed from her small seated figure, wondering if he could walk around the trunk without making a noise.

But suddenly, a blast of wind came from the direction of the road, sweeping away the dust and leaves as well as the frilled cap she put on her lap, making her jump up, to try to catch it.

'Mr. Holmes?' she hissed upon seeing him standing behind her, as scrambled to her feet to catch her cap.

'Forgive me, I…'Sherlock heard himself stammering, leaping forward to catch the fabric on the ground, before it was carried away. Turning back to face her, he couldn't think of any excuse to justify why he was where he was.

'I didn't mean to intrude-'

'Oh, thank you!' she interrupted him before he could speak further, smiling and taking the cap from him to brush off the dirt and sand. Sherlock felt his breath hitch. He opened his mouth a few time but was unable to form anything coherent.

'Are you well, sir?' she looked up and asked, still brushing the dust from the fabric, absent-mindedly. 'You're a bit flushed.'

'I…' the botanist looked down at his feet, clenching his fists, feeling the twigs between his fingers. 'Ma'am?' he glanced up at her, muttering quietly.

'Yes?'

'Do you need these?' he lifted up his hand, presenting the white flowers attached to the sprigs. 'I noted that you don't wear any in your hair today-'

'I didn't have time to pick this morning,' she whispered, staring at him. 'I was…'

'You're tired.' he said, staring back. 'Even if you don't appear pale now, you are still rather low in spirit.'

'Low in spirit, how?' she asked him. Sherlock took in a deep breath, feeling the back of his neck burning up. He griped tightly onto the leafy sprigs.

'You talked very little on our way here. You didn't even try to stop Archie climbing onto my shoulders.'

She burst into a small laugh. 'Oh, that!'

'Exactly,' he smiled back, nervously. 'So, um…do you?' he plucked a couple of white flowers from the sprigs, offering them to her with a smile, as he saw the beam on her face widening.

'Indeed,' she answered with a giggle, accepting the flowers and beginning to tuck them into her coiled hair. 'I might need some more,' she asked, looking up.

Sherlock quickly complied, plucking a few more of white flowers and watching her turn away from him to put them into the inner pockets of her skirt, before she covered her hair with the frilled cap once again.

'You ought to drink some water before we go on, Mr. Holmes.' She didn't look back at him after she finished inserting flowers. Instead, she stepped away to collect the bamboo water tube lying on the ground between the roots, gesturing for Sherlock to come forward to take the water. 'Your cheeks are red. And you may not notice but there's a lot of sweat on your face. So it's for the better if we ensure that you're…'

'Fine,' Sherlock murmured in response, taking the water tube from her, staring at the opening at the top then shaking off the through that his landlady had just cleaned herself from the same tube of water, as he gulped from the yellow stem. The sound of his swallowing covered the quite little noise from the forest nearby, distracting him from his surrounding but for the fact that Mrs. Jansen was standing ahead and looking at him. Slurping down the last drop, Sherlock wiped his chin and focused on his landlady again, feeling embarrassed as she tittered, amused by his eagerness.

'You should have drunk when you were first offered, Mr. Holmes.'

'I will bear that in mind next time, ma'am,' the botanist sighed, feeling refreshed from the water but still wishing for more. 'I'm…' he began, but immediately stopped, for all of a sound of gunshot thundered ahead from the road, almost making him jerk. 'What the…' he bit back curse, glancing down at his landlady. She looked up to him and opened her lips. But before she could say anything…

' _Verdorie, niet dit weer!'_ Fredrik Bos swore with a growl, rushing to see what had happened and shouting even louder once he saw where the gunshot came from. Stopping in the road, he waved to the tall Formosan man, ahead, who was carrying an empty basket and pointing the gun towards the sky as he trotted up to them. A laugh escaped from the young soldier.

'That's one of Saiyun's brother,' Mrs. Jansen turned to tell Sherlock, as they walked around the tree to rejoin the others.

The young Formosan man spoke hastily and started to put some of Fredrik's luggage into his basket, ruffling Archie's hair and greeting John, while he stood up to wait aside. He looked back and forwards among them, pausing for a moment when he saw Sherlock but soon gave him a slight nod. 'Are you Sena Molly's guest?' he asked.

' _Ja, ik ben haar gast._ ' Sherlock nodded back, looking him up and down, immediately noticing that his calloused hands bore the same bruises and marks as the Company's musketeers. And the gun he carried had clearly belonged to him for at least one…no, two years because the barrel and the wooden butt had his palm marks on them.

'Welcome to our grounds,' he said to the botanist. 'Feel free to ask for anything here.' He began to move, his earrings, tool bag and the cleaver knife at his waist were all swaying as he walked. But there was barely a sound under his feet. 'As long as you stay with us, you should be safe.' he grinned back at them, as he reached the road, pulling at the rope of his basket. 'Ah, and-' he turned back, staring at Sherlock once again.

'Give him some water before he falls, Fredrik. He's too flushed even for a newcomer.'

* * *

 **The Dutch appeared in this chapter:**

 _Mijn God!_ '= My God!

 _Wat?=_ What?

 _Misschien=_ Maybe

Ik geloof het niet…= I can't believe it…

 _Niets=_ Nothing

 _Meneer, u moet wat drinken=_ Sir, you need to drink.

 _Verdorie, niet dit weer!= Darn, not this again!_

 _Ja, ik ben haar gast= Yes, I'm her guest_


	13. Chapter 12 The Schoolmaster

**Hey guys! It's been a while since the last update! I'm sorry about the delay. The reason it took me so long to come up with a new chapter is because I started another story. But that doesn't mean I'll give up on this one. No way! So...I hope you'll like this chapter!**

 **As usual I have to thank my two wonderful betas, missClaraOswinOswald and thedragonaunt! And like the last chapter, there's translations attached at the end of the chapter.**

 **Okay, what we'd left off...**

 _ **What will happen once they finally make it to the village?**_

* * *

 **Chapter 12 The Schoolmaster**

The first announcement of their arrival at the village of Sinkan was three gunshots fired from the bamboo tower hidden in the seemingly impenetrable forest beside the road. Sherlock almost jumped, upon hearing the thundering sounds, as he had become quite weary from traveling. He had expected their journey would soon be ended, since the young Formosan man showed up by the magnolia tree. But he was wrong. After they resumed their journey, at least another hour had past. With the forest by the trail growing thicker and thicker and the light from the sky becoming rather faint, the botanist couldn't help but sigh out loud, as they once again turned another corner and were met by another long, dim and endless road.

' _we zijn er bijna_ ,' Fredrik Bos looked over his shoulder and gave Sherlock a big wide grin. 'It won't be long, Mr. Holmes.'

'You said that at the last three turns, Fredrik,' the surgeon walking next to him snorted, with a laugh, turning round and throwing Sherlock a knowing smile. 'But he's right. We should make it there in no time-'

Then a loud _bang_ cut his statement short, followed by another two shots and laughter, coming from the nearby forest. The young Formosan walking ahead burst into laughter, looking over his shoulder as those in the forest kept on laughing and running onto the road, each of them with a musket carried on their back. And each of them was smiling broadly as they greeted the weary travellers.

'They have a watch tower by the road to their village,' Sherlock muttered, while taking in the bamboo pillars through the tangled underbrush. The hidden path was barely recognizable before those young man made passage through the underbrush to join them on the road. Wiping the sweat on his forehead, the botanist breathed in deeply as he slowly worked out the outline of the tower, It was barely higher than the crowns of the trees nearby. The very top of the roof was decorated or- more accurately - disguised with freshly cut branches. It was almost impossible to see there was a watch tower. Although…as he blinked away the dryness that had developed within his eyes, Sherlock was sure, judging by the direction and the height of the open window on that tower, that those on it could see them from far enough to have sufficient time to load three muskets and fire them at roughly the same time.

'Six watch towers around the village,' John muttered quietly to him in English, a restrained smile hanging at the corner of his lips. 'And I'm pretty sure there's still one or two men watching from this one. I know for a fact that they can stuff up to seven or eight grown men in that little room.'

'It doesn't hurt to be vigilant, I suppose. When your village is surrounded mostly by forest and thickets full of wild beasts…'

A sneer of laughter escaped the surgeon's lips. Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he removed his gaze from the hidden tower and saw his friend was smiling somehow bitterly.

'Ah…Sherlock!' John shook his head as he sighed. 'You really don't know anything about warfare, do you? Do you really think them carrying thick cleaving knives around was for cutting firewood? Wait until you see their farms and the women doing the tilling. There's always armed men patrolling while they work. And it's not for wild animals.'

'I thought there were no longer wars among different clans, given that this part of the island has been occupied by the Company for so many years.' Sherlock pouted and rolled his eyes, glancing at his shorter friend's tightened posture and expression. John always held back whenever he mentioned anything about the bloody past between the Company and the Formosan clans. And Sherlock had no intention of bringing any of it up. For, those were hardly his concerns. All he wanted, on the island was to explore and record whatever he could.

'Well, but you're right, John,' he swallowed down his annoyance with a deep breath. 'I don't know anything about warfare. And never have any intention to even consider or learn.' _It was partly a lie_ , Sherlock thought, as he turned away from his friend, focusing on the greenery nearby so that he wouldn't vividly recall the reprehension and condemnation from his family before he set to sail.

'You're a lucky one,' his friend chuckled as they resumed walking, heading to the next corner, where Sherlock was sure it would put an end to this hard and rough journey, as voices of women and children were became clearer with each step they took and the shadow cast by the dense forest gave way to brighter light, shining from the cloudless sky above.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The first woman they met around the corner, when they arrived at the village, didn't bother to give them much attention before she went straight to Fredrik Bos to grab him by both ears, pulling him down to kiss him, loudly on the top of his head. If Sherlock didn't know any better, he'd probably mistake her for young Bos' lover. But the fine wrinkles around her eyes and the affectionate pinches she laid on his cheeks told a different story. She then turned to give them a wild grin, her perfect teeth sparkling under the warm afternoon sun, when she greeted Mrs. Jansen and Archie with the same passion. It was when she turned to Sherlock that the botanist saw the grey locks at her temples, as she looked him up and down, with an intriguing smile, but didn't say a word until a blond man trotted up to them, behind the village fence.

'Mr. Van de Berg,' Archie mumbled, squeezing out a smile to the round-faced man then leaning backward, against his mother.

Mrs. Jansen gave Archie a smile before she gave the man a slight nod. Sherlock noticed that her shoulders seemed to become somehow stiffer, as the man - who was clearly a member of the church, according to his manner - approached. She spoke to him with her gaze slightly downward, as she usually did while talking to some of the cocky staff of the the Company. This was very odd to Sherlock's eyes because the man, whom the botanist recognized - by their conversation - as the village schoolmaster who'd taken over Mr. Jansen, seemed to be very polite to her.

'So, you must be the famous botanist they're all talking about. Mister?' he suddenly turned his attention to Sherlock, as the botanist still tried to deduce him more. Sherlock blinked rapidly, as he picked up the schoolmaster's question.

'Holmes,' he said, forcing a half smile. 'Though I'm pretty sure I'm not at all _famous_.'

'You certainly are. Tales of you helping Captain Lestrade to catch the bunch of thieves have been the the talk in Zeelandia for weeks.'

'Ah, that was just-'

'And…I heard that you currently lodge in Mrs. Jansen's household?' he changed the subject all of the sudden, a small wince fleeting across his face. Sherlock couldn't help but frown. _What was that about?_

He looked intently at the man standing before him. His manner was nothing but _proper_ , exactly as anyone would expect from a man in his line of work. But there was something not quite right about this man. Everyone seemed to be a bit uneasy around him. Fredrik Bos and his relatives hadn't spoken a word to him, since he came to them - and via versa . Archie was quietly holding his mother's hand, despite the high spirits he had had during their entire journey. Even John was in silent, staring at Sherlock as if he was afraid that his friend would say something wrong.

'Not her household. I rent the entire house from her,' he answered, with a deep breath, then continued. 'Mrs. Jansen and Archie now live with Mrs. Hudson,' said the botanist, tilting his head slightly as he carefully read the subtle expression on the man's face. He was wearing a faint smile

' _Ach ja,_ ' he uttered before he turned to Mrs. Jansen. Sherlock immediately took the chance to thoroughly look him up and down. There were a lot of ink stains on his right hand. And the state of his clothes…they appeared to be clean but the stitching seemed a little misaligned, under his left sleeve. One of his buttons wasn't straight. All the signs indicated he was a single man, living alone, who constantly worked at a dest in evenings. What intrigued Sherlock was the perseverant demeanour he held while talking, and the raised eyebrows he gave out upon hearing of Mrs. Hudson.

'That's is very kind of you, ma'am. How's Mrs. Hudson? I presume she's much more sober since she now has you looking out for her?'

Sherlock saw Mrs. Jansen blink a couple times when Mr. Van de Berg spoke. 'Mrs. Hudson…is as good as she always was, sir,' she said quietly, lowering her head and subtly holding back. Her lips pressed tightly together under the shadow cast by the botanist's taller figure. The sudden twitch of Archie's hand held tightly in hers made her tense up even more.

'Um…Mr. Van de Berg?' John called out behind Sherlock, with a forced chuckle. 'Is it possible that I show my friend to the lodgings? The journey was quite long for us and I'm sure Bos would like to see his wife…'

'Mrs. Bos is still reading to the girls,' Mr. Van de Berg glanced at Fredrik, who subtly rolled his eyes when he felt the gaze land upon him. Sherlock had to look away to prevent himself from sneering. This curious schoolmaster clearly knew how to upset people. The way he casually dismissed the young soldier made Sherlock wonder how he had ended up here and how he managed to survive. Only recently, during his voyage to the island, John had once told him that when the Company first brought the missionaries to Formosa, a new schoolteacher had been decapitated, only days after taking the post in one of the Formosan clan, because he hadn't listened to his predecessors and caned some of their children. The locals were generally friendly, ever since they'd learned not to fight against the Company. But there was always a limit which shouldn't be tested and they expected to be treated with _respect_. But this Mr. Van de Berg obviously didn't care much about how the villagers felt about him - including the son-in-law, Fredrik Bos.

In fact, he seemed to be dismissive of everyone except for Mrs. Jansen.

'Oh! Saiyun is reading today?' Sherlock's landlady exclaimed and patted Archie's shoulder. 'Perhaps we can go listen before she finishes. What do you say, Archie?'

The boy leaned back, looking up with a small nod.

And that was it. The schoolmaster disappeared within moments, as soon as the rest of them decided to head to their separate destinations. The mother and the boy went with Bos' relatives, for they were to stay in their family houses with the women - a regular arrangement whenever she and Archie visited the village. Sherlock was led by John to a two story house, provided for land surveyors and interpreters. The house looked relatively new, as most of the village buildings, apparently mostly rebuilt after the storm, five year ago. The key was hanging next to the front door. By the sound it made as John unlocked it, Sherlock could tell not many visitors had stayed here in recent months. Because Sinkan was the closest clan to the castle of Provintia, the Company no longer needed land surveyors to do any measurement in this area and the villagers had long since become used to the European's presence.

'John,' the botanist called, as his friend led him upstairs and opened up the biggest room, revealing three narrow beds.

'Yes?' his friend hummed distractedly, as he tossed his luggage on the floor and fell backwards onto the straw mattress, sighing loudly in relief.

'Why aren't you invited to one of their houses, like Mrs. Jansen and Archie? You seem rather familiar with this village. Surely you'd befriended by some people here, if you visit on a regular basis-'

'Who said I visit a lot?'

'You are very familiar with the roads that lead here and the circumstances of the village. And they know you.'

'I…uh…I don't come here that often, in recent years,' the surgeon shrugged, sitting up from the bed and beginning to unbutton his clothes. Sherlock narrowed his eyes upon seeing this. But he continued.

'So you visited more back then?' Sherlock asked, noticing that John slowly closed his eyes, as his head dropped back slightly, a typical response meaning that Sherlock guessed right.

'Well, it's not exactly a secret,' John answered with a sigh, shaking his head. 'I'm going to fetch some water for bathing. You should wash too, if you don't want to appear to be rude. The people here usually bathe twice a day so it's better that we smell clean when we go dine with them later.'

Sherlock frowned in confusion. 'But no one invited me to supper-'

'You come with Molly,' his friend cut him off, impatiently jumping to his feet and pushing open the door. ' _We_ come with Molly…That means whatever she is offered, we are offered, as well. So we had better be quick. There's not much time for us to wash before dusk.' With that, John stepped out of the room, trotted down the small hallway and disappeared at the corner, leaving Sherlock there staring at his back, wondering what was behind John's subtle reluctance to discuss his past visits to this village.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

'Why can't I stay with _sena_ , mama?' Archie grumbled, as he grabbed at his slightly damp hair with one hand while the other was firmly held by his mother, pulling him behind her as she walked towards the village chapel. His mind still remained in the cottage they'd just left, where _sena_ had given him a piece of honey millet cake, dusted with the sugar Fredrik brought, just before he was called for a bath in the nearby stream.

'We have to go to see your father first, remember?' Mama's squeezed his hand, slowing down to brush away the wet hair from his face. Archie groaned and tried to turn away. He didn't like it when mama insisted on drying his hair with a new kerchief, after she'd already done that so many times. But what he didn't like even more was going to the cemetery, where there was nothing to look at.

'But I don't want to,' he said. And the expected look from mama made him lower his head and pout. 'Mama, I don't like it there…'

'I know,' mama whispered, kneeling in front of him, tugging his hair behind his ears, as she finally stopped trying to dry it. There was only so much a kerchief could do. 'So we don't have to stay long. You just have to wait aside while I clear the ground and…we can talk to your papa.'

'But…' Archie leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of mama's neck and sensing a pair of warm hands stroking his head. 'I don't know what to say.'

'Anything you can think of…' He could hear her small sighs before she began to speak. 'And it doesn't have to be said out loud-'

'What do you usually say, mama?' Pulling away from the warm embrace, Archie stared up at mama's nose, then her face, as he asked. He saw her lips suddenly part.

'I…' she hesitated, blinking at him then tilting her head before she closed her eyes tightly and stood up. 'We should hurry. It will soon be dark. Come on.' She patted gently on his shoulder, urging him to walk on. Archie pouted and looked back down on the ground. Mama's shadow was long and covered his completely, as she held out her hand to him to ask him to come forward into the blinding orange glare.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The new chapel seemed slightly smaller than its foundations. But Molly knew it was just her misconception. Because she was used to comparing everything in the Sinkan village, nowadays, to what she'd first seen when she first married Tom, village schoolmaster, almost nine years ago. She had only been a wife for a week and never really seen anything, aside from her family home in Batavia, the ship on which she and father sailed to Formosa, and their little lodgings in the town of Zeelandia.

It was also the first time she travelled without her father, but with a new husband she'd known for less than a month. The journey had been particularly trying for her, not only because she hadn't adjusted to the island's climate, but also because she didn't know what to expect in a _savages' village_. The prospect of starting a new life with a man who seemingly cared for her, wasn't nearly enough to eliminate the fear and uncertainty.

But her first sight in the village changed that.

The first thing she saw, upon the arrival at Sinkan, was three children chasing and wrestling together by the outer fence. The smallest girl spotted them from a distance and dashed directly forward, dragging the other two boys behind her, as they almost knocked Molly down to the ground. Tom wasn't amused at all, giving the oldest boy - the one who was obviously an European - a severe reprimand, stating he'd expected better behaviour from him. She later learned that the boy was named Fredrik Bos and his father, the Company's interpreter and land surveyor, liked to leave him to the care of his Formosan friends whenever he had to go further north to explore the unfamiliar area. A habit her new husband thoroughly disapproved of. Shortly after she settled in the new lodgings, she learned that the other girl and boy was named Saiyun and Kuyun, the youngest twins of the most prominent and _civilized_ family in the entire clan.

 _They've just starting to renounce their godless way_ , was what Tom had told her when Molly asked about what her role should be in the future. _So it would be better if you could learn their tongue quickly and set a good example for them as a proper christian woman. Their customs aren't exactly respectful when it comes to marriage and raising children. It is caused by pure ignorance, but some of the army men are prone to take advantage of that…if you know what I mean._

Molly didn't know what he meant until a few days later when she saw John Watson, the army surgeon who she had only met once with her father when they first arrived in the island months ago, coming out of one of the village houses with a woman who had a small child in her arms. The toddler's blonde hair wasn't the only resemblance she could see between father and son. He and the woman were arguing, quietly but fiercely, over something Molly couldn't understand at that time. Later, when she told Tom what she'd seen, her husband merely sighed and told her that John was at least willing to try to do the right thing. Some of the army men didn't bother that much to make their Formosan women honest especially after they knew the women here were never expected to be married before they could bear children. John had been trying to persuade the mother of his child to marry him ever since she'd fallen pregnant. But her family disliked him gravely. And after the boy was born, even the mother herself began to disapprove of his presence. Because she'd rather have her brothers bringing up her son than the father of her child.

Molly was shocked, to say the least. She'd never heard of anything like that before. But then, she was only sixteen years of age and knew very little apart from what she'd been told. She didn't know what she should feel about what she'd heard, and her short stay in the village did not give her much time to figure out what she really felt about their way of living. She only knew that people were friendly to her. And her time spent in the village was generally satisfying, before she decided to move to Provintia, after she and Tom had fallen out.

'The ground is already cleared, mama,' Archie tugged at her sleeve, as they walked past the chapel and reached the graveyard, pointing his finger to the grassless ground. 'There's not even any weeds. Someone had been here earlier.'

'I suppose Mr. Van de Berg had people do that. He cares about little things like this,' Molly breathed out, giving her boy a smile. 'That's kind of him. You don't have to wait now.'

Archie grinned back. 'So what do we do?' he asked, stopping in front of the grave stone at the centre of the cemetery.

'As I said before,' Molly whispered. 'You can talk to your papa.'

'But I can't think of anything to say…' Archie looked up, blinking at her. Molly gave his face a squeeze.

'Alright,' she said, turning his shoulder around so that he was facing the grave stone. 'How about…you read out the inscription for me?'

'It just says _Thomas Jansen_ …'

'And?'

'Sixteen fifty-five.'

'How long is that from now?'

'It's,' Archie looked done at his hands, spreading fingers, as he counted. 'Five years.'

'Five years,' Molly repeated, holding her boy's shoulders from behind. 'It's a long time.'

'Not for a tree,' Archie said with a chuckle, 'Or a tortoise.'

Molly found herself grinning. 'Oh,' she tittered. 'What makes you think of that?'

'Mr. Holmes said the measurement of time is different for different things. An hour is very long for me but it's just a blink for a sapling. It takes decades for a sapling to become a tree.'

Molly burst into titters. 'Why did he tell you this, Archie? Did you stay by his desk all the time when I was in the castle?'

'Not all the time,' he protested, 'Just…' he rolled his eyes, looking away, as Molly ruffled his hair.

'It's fine,' she sighed. 'I shouldn't have gone for so long-' She stopped, as a loud hoot came from a nearby tree.

The boy's shoulders tensed up under her hands before he turned and clasped at her waist.

'Can we go now?' he looked up and begged. Molly nodded curtly.

'Alright,' she said, patting Archie's arms to have him let go of her so that she could move. She glanced back once at Tom's headstone, as the boy began to pull her away, walking…running as fast as he could toward the light of the village, leaving the darkened cemetery behind.

* * *

we zijn er bijna = we're almost there.

Ach ja = ah, yes.

As always, reviews are always welcomed!


	14. Chapter 13 Sinkan

Trigger Warning: This chapter is about John the army surgoen's past life, which means _**WARFARE**_ , _ **GORE** **,**_ and of course, _**DEATH**_. (Did I mention this fic is extremely obsessed with historical accuracy?). Also there's mentioning of _**LOSS OF CHILD**_.

A million thanks go to my wonderful betas, thedragonaunt and missClaraOswinOswald. They offered me great help to make the language right!

A few Dutch words were put within the dialogue. Just to make it feels more periodical. missClaraOswinOswald translated the dialogues.

* * *

 **Chapter 13 Sinkan**

When John Watson first decided he wanted to make a life on a ship sailing east nearly twenty years ago, little did he expect he would end up on an island he had never before heard of, not to mention in a village like this. As a trained surgeon, he knew he could always find employment as long as there were ship-owners willing to take a risk for yet another venture. But once he made it to Batavia, he soon realized that, if traveling was what he'd been after, joining the army would be the wiser path.

He didn't expect he'd be sent to anywhere further north than Java.

Upon his first arrival at Taioan - the long sandbank miles away from the main island - all John could think of was that he wouldn't leave this place alive. The fortress of Zeelandia may have been an effective stronghold for guarding the lagoon, but he and three hundred army men were soon to be sent north to fight the hostile clans. And after a month of sailing past the northernmost of the island and subduing clan after clan by firearms, John found himself being thrown back to the central part of Formosa and trapped within the deep mountain, as a typhoon hit them unexpectedly in October. Days and days of heavy rain left them cold and ill. Eventually, their gunpowder was all wet and there was no dry wood to be found. But it wasn't until their local interpreter abandoned them and some of their men began to freeze to death that their commander decided to leave the mountain, marching the troop back to the safe coastline, where they could at least have the sea on their side and obtain supplies from their ship.

Yet, of course, things could never go that easy.

Just as some of the surviving men showed the first signs of recovery, strong winds from the ocean blew their ships away from the shore. Without the means to retreat, they had no choice but to march south, on foot, hoping to reach Taioan as soon as possible, given that they were only thirty miles north from the fortress. But, after days of wading across creek after creek, suddenly they were surrounded by enemies again. The very same clans from the mountains, which were, in fact, a kingdom named Quataong, with a king and hundreds of trained warriors - as their commander finally remembered to inform them - had clearly followed the troop all the way to the plain, learning enough of how musketeers fought, by watching silently from the sidelines, before they ambushed them, soundlessly, with rocks and spears and arrows. They had driven John and the army men into the bushes, for cover, where they had taken a rout leading to the next village, in the hope of procuring shelter and supply.

That turned out to be a grave mistake.

The first village they came across had already been burnt down. It seemed that the kingdom of Quataong was a lot larger than the commander had believed. And out of pure rage and idiocy, the army was ordered to retaliate against the next village by setting fire to everything they could see.

What they didn't know was that this was exactly what the Quataong warriors were waiting for.

As soon as the army entered the next village, they were immediately engulfed by heavy smoke coming from the nearby forest, as the evacuated villagers burnt down bushes, upwind, to smoke them out while warriors attacked them along the road, snatching them one by one into the thick underbrush, as arrows fell upon them through the thick smog. By the time the wind finally dropped, only half of the troop was left, as they found themselves near the coastline, with their ships in sight. The wisest call, at that point, would have been to send for the boats and retreat back to their ships. But the commander, like all of those who sought rank and glory in the army, insisted that they made a formation to turn back and fight the warriors, despite John and other two officers' fierce objections. It wasn't until he finally returned to Taioan that John learned about the primary goal of their expedition was to crush the kingdom of Quataong. But none of the men, even the two officers, apart from the commander were aware of that when they loaded their remaining firearms with the little gunpowder they had left and arranged themselves into three rows, to face the hundreds of warriors armed with shields and long spears, emerging from the long, thick grasses and underbrush, by the shore.

John knew from that moment that this battle wouldn't end well for them.

They held back at first, expecting the enemy to march closer into their effective firing range. But apparently the Quataongers had learned enough to stay away. So the commander ordered them to stay put for the moment, believing those savage warriors would eventually lose patience and march forward. But soon the tide began to rise and they were all standing in the water. Deciding not to risk losing their last batch of gunpowder, the commander ordered them to return to the unoccupied higher ground, nearby. That was when they realized that the ermemy had long been hiding, in the grass of the higher ground by the sea, waiting to attack them when they moved.

The first sign of the second ambush was a muffled scream coming from John's right side, as a young soldier - a fifteen-year-old boy who had already suffered severe diarrhea - was dragged into the grass, then a spurt of his blood splashed straight into John's face, as a Quataong man chopped off the boy's head, with two others holding him down. The lad's musket discharged, as his head was thrown into their formation. The next thing John knew, he was being blown away and knocked to the ground, on his back, as the still ignited match of the dead boy set up the gunpowders carried on the his belt. A cracked lead bullet pierced his right shoulder, as he landed on his back in the gore of the beheaded soldier. The cloudless sky pinned him thoroughly down ,while the sound of the ocean deafened his mind.

The combat lasted for at least three hours, as the soldiers desperately maintained their formation to protect their comrades in the inner circle, reloading the guns while their enemies charged them with shields, between rounds, pulling a few of them away with each strike and throwing their severed heads back among them. Eventually, they felt their boots soaking in the salty water again, as they were forced back to the shore, as the tide continued to rise. But it wasn't until the Quataongers began to sing that the officers started to beg the commander to allow them to send for the boats. By the time they finally sailed -for a mere twenty miles - back to Zeelandia, only a third of the men were left. Several of them died of their injuries, shortly after they boarded the ships, including one of the two officers. As a result, the commander and the castle of Zeelandia reported to Batavia that the defeat was due the typhoon, disease and the lack of morale.

John was glad that the commander had already left Formosa when he heard about all these, or else he would definitely have put a bullet in his head. He had been isolated most of the time during his recovery, locking himself in the small rented room in the town of Zeelandia. The injury on his shoulder made him unable to lift his arm for a long time. By the time he finally began to feel well enough to go outside, most people whose acquaintance he had made in the service had left the island.

The Company made a peace treaty with the king of Quataong, promising never to trespass on their lands, across the border creek. In return, the king would stop sending warriors to the Company's turf to headhunt, and would release the surviving interpreters and messengers they had taken hostage during the months of negotiation. The treaty was widely hated by the staff because, in the end, only one interpreter - who had two of his fingers cut off - was rescued, together with the bloody clothes of the others. And, upon hearing this, John knew in his heart it was time for him to leave. His function as an army surgeon was no longer truly needed on this island, not when they wouldn't go fight the Quataong in the future. As soon as the next ship to Batavia arrived, he would be on his way.

But then that he saw her, on a bright and warm day in April, passing by his window and accidentally glancing in, while John was staring blankly at the wall of his small room and brooding over the past year. Her eyes met his then immediately frowned and looked away. Despite was all over her fair, smirking face. John heard himself tutting loudly. What did she think she was doing?

Before he could begin to comprehend, he was on his feet and dashing out of the door. Shutting the door behind him, he stared straight at the woman who was now leaning against a wall and still smiling at him. Listening to his own pounding heart, John carefully took her in. She was small and sturdy, in a pair of dark gunny trousers and a matching top with red and blue embroidery around the collar and cuffs. Glancing back at him, she burst into chuckles upon seeing his disheveled clothing, and giggled even harder, as she turned away. Her dark waist-length hair swayed with her, and her laughter soon spread, while the two men who were with her began to titter. That was when John noticed one of the men had a toddler girl in his arms. The similar color and patterns of embroidery on their clothes told him that they belonged to the same family. Perhaps one of the men was her husband. But John had heard before that the Formosan women didn't like to marry. Therefore, it was more likely that the men were her brothers. But John couldn't be sure.

So he observed them, watching them closely from a distance, as they turned their attention to the street vendors. They were heading slowly to the castle. And, at that pace John doubted they would make it there before dusk. The little girl was clearly her daughter, as she kept asking the woman to hold her, which made them walk even slower. By noon, they had moved merely few dozens of yards from where John lived, without looking back once. It wasn't until they reached the chamber of commerce, located at the edge of the town near the castle, that John began to realize they had been aware of him all the time. For he was suddenly approached by a man coming from the chamber, after one of the Formosan men went into the building.

A slightly pale man, whose left hand was wrapped with tainted bandages.

'Dr Watson,' he stopped a few steps away, in front of John, a frown and a suppressed smile on his face. 'A guest of the chamber just told me you're stalking their sister. Do stop doing that. It's incredibly rude, even for an army man like you.'

John felt his jaw drop. He blinked a few times before he managed to answer. 'You know me?' he asked, yet immediately regretted it, as the man with a bleeding hand snorted a laugh.

' _Natuurlijk_ ,' he sniffed then looked away.

' _Hoe?_ Pray tell?' John said with gritted teeth. This man smiled too much.

'Ah, who doesn't know the army surgeon who so heroically got himself shot in battle?' he kept on chuckling. John felt the blood in his head rush into his ears, all at once. Taking a quick glimpse at the man's wrapped up hand, the surgeon felt his shoulder begin to throb, as he inhaled deeply.

'You're the surviving interpreter.'

'Hendrik Bos, at your service,' he raised his eyebrows. 'Oh, wait, in fact I'm quite done with providing my services to clean up the mess left by the army. So please, do stay away from here. And stop staring at that lady. She's a landowner with children so you won't get a chance. If you're looking for company, there's a house down the next street-'

'What's her name?' John asked, sharply, as he looked past the interpreter's shoulder and noticed the woman was now cuddling her daughter against her chest and beginning to unfasten her shirt. A surge of indescribable sensation rushed up to John's head and he felt his eyes began to moisten…

'Did you not listen?' the interpreter's voice came from the side and John was sure he was wincing. But he couldn't look at him at the moment, as the woman was now picking up her daughter and hastily unfastening her clothes, turning away to face the wall. John blinked at such a sight. He had seen mothers nursing before. But this was entirely different. He couldn't tear his eyes away, even if he somehow noticed the other man was reaching for his wounded shoulder-

'Ah!' John bit out, instinctively grabbing the interpreter's hands yet immediately withdrawing, as he realized he'd just touched the man's severed fingers. He meant to apologize but then a solid punch landed on his left cheek, as the other man spit out a string of curses then backed away.

'Mr. Bos?' the family by the chamber called out. John saw the interpreter gritting his teeth. His right fist was stained with blood from John's nose, while his left hand was shaking from the pain of the wrapped fingers.

'Stay away from the chamber, Watson,' he hissed at the surgeon. 'And for the love of Christ keep yourself together. You embarrass us all,' he said while wiping away a tear and sweat from his face, before turning on his heels and returning to the building. John gaped, as Bos disappeared through the door. The woman gave him a hard look then followed the interpreter into the chamber. Her family walked closely behind her, leaving John the only one remaining under the sharp April sun.

He remembered running back to his lodging, all too aware of his greasy hair and dirty shirt. He spent the rest of the day shaving his face and cleaning himself. For the first time in months, John felt his injury was healing, as he could manage to lift his right arm above his head when he dressed. When he had finally finished, he stepped out of his door. The sun was setting near the surface of the ocean. He wondered for a moment what he should do but then soon decided he would go to the pier to see if there were any oysters left for the day. And that turned out to be a life changing decision.

He met them again at the beach, the woman and her family, picking up oysters and shell fish from the Chinese fishermen. None of them noticed him until John made a noise, trying to talk to a clam digger. She gasped, as she recognized him and called her brothers. John expected her to laugh at him as before. But she merely stared and smiled. Pinks patches appeared on her smooth cheeks. The next thing he noticed was that her brothers went away with the little girl. A few moments later, they were the only two left on the beach, sitting together on a large lump of driftwood, cracking shell fish and oysters with sharp stones and eating in silence.

John would never forget it was she who made the first move.

Her fingertips were a little rough but the touches were very gentle. Roaming over his freshly shaven face, she murmured a few words, while he winced at the bruise he had acquired a few hours before. She barely made a sound when John pulled her close and undressed her. Not a hint of shyness was seen on her face, as she stood before him naked, carefully pushing his jacket off his shoulders then unbuttoning his shirt. It wasn't until she leaned forward to kiss him that John realized he had lost himself gazing at her. Her lips were soft and savory with the taste of shell fish. He couldn't help but moan into her when he felt the light tugs at the back of his head. Slowly but smoothly, she nudged him onto the sand, pinning him in place with kisses so gentle that John had to comb his fingers into her hair, for fear she would suddenly break away. But she didn't. She kept on kissing him until the sun completely sank into the ocean, until their vision darkened and the sound of the sea became so overwhelming that she had to cling to him, rolling them both closer to the driftwood to let John take the lead.

She felt much warmer than the sands beneath them. The small sounds she made rhymed with the sound of the waves. Under the faint skylight John could see that her sparkling eyes never left his. Her arms circled around his shoulders, carefully avoiding putting pressure on where he'd been shot. How she knew of his injuries, John couldn't fathom at the moment. All he knew was, since that moment and for many years to come, it was the sparkles he saw in this evening that kept him on the island. Even after they became estranged, long before their son was born.

At dawn, they walked back to the town, holding hands. Neither of them broke the silence. She and her family remained in the town for nearly a week, reviewing the contract the Company had drafted in the chamber. Their rental lodging was merely two doors down from John's. Each night, she'd come to lay with him but never fell asleep. They murmured and spoke to each other in bed. John supposed she could understand him a little, because she always listened closely when he spoke. But she never responded much. She always left at midnight. And during the day she and her family were always in the chamber. The last night before her return to the main island, she stayed until daybreak. John only realized she was leaving the town when he woke to find her gazing at him, fully clothed. She said something to him, as he rose up. Her family was already waiting for her outside. It wasn't until when their son came along that she told him she was wishing him a good life and safe voyage on that morning.

She didn't want to see him again. But John didn't know.

He went to see the interpreter Hendrik Bos, asking if he knew where to find that family. That bastard refused to spill a word.

'She didn't even give you their name, Watson. If I breathe a word to you it would be a betrayal of confidence. God knows how hard I worked to gain their trust.' He then sent for a Javanese doorman to throw John out and told the rest of the chamber staff not to let John in in the future.

But his attitude soon changed, within a week, when John went to ask him yet again and saw him almost past out in pain when his four-year-old son Fredrik - it was the first time John met him - accidentally grabbed his wounded fingers, outside the chamber. After taking off the bandage, the surgeon soon found out it was the oily ointment the castle provided for him that kept his wounds from healing. Otherwise, the pain should have eased weeks ago.

'I could tell you where to find her. But you have to find someone to bring you into their clan. I certainly won't be the one to introduce you. It would be too obvious. And you don't go there uninvited, if you value your neck,' he told John, days later, when John visited his house. The man had become much more agreeable since John changed his dressing and told him to take a dose of turmeric every day. But the grudges Bos held against the army men remained unresolved. 'We don't need another war. Although I'm fairly certain they won't send men to revenge you should you get yourself killed, not after you people lost so disastrously last year.'

John couldn't help but sniff. 'I thought we won against the Formosans long ago.'

'By utilizing the blood feuds among separate clans, yes. Which is lucky for you. The lady you wish to seek belongs to the clan of Sinkan. A clan which is actually friendly to us. So friendly that my son, Fredrik prefers staying there to Zeelandia. They have their way with children,' he shook his head and sighed. 'May I give you some advice, Watson?'

'Sure,' John shrugged, as he finished dressing the man's broken fingers.

The interpreter swallowed, as he resumed. 'Let this pass. Don't try to go there. A surgeon with your skill can easily make a fortune in big cities like Batavia. You should take the next ship as you had planned and leave,' he said. John let out a slight snort.

' _Waarom_?' he asked.

'Because it won't end well for you,' Bos said without a thought. John immediately narrowed his eyes, surprised by his assertion.

'How would you know?' the surgeon inhaled deeply with a frown. He would have questioned further but, just at that moment. the interpreter's son ran over the threshold, covered in mud from head to toe. The father scolded him while helplessly shoving him towards the small yard behind. John jumped up to followed them, stopping at the back door.

'I could be wrong, of course,' Bos spoke while pouring water onto thy boy's head. 'But I've seen men like you, Watson. Just ask yourself this, before you ignore me. When you die, which you will in time, can you see yourself being buried on this island?'

John didn't know how to answer the question until years later, when he buried his son.

* * *

The Dutch words appeared in this chapter: (translated by missClaraOswinOswald)

 **Natuurlijk = of course**

 **Hoe =How**

 **Waarom =Why**

Reviews are always welcome! I'm dying to know how you feel about this chpater! So please, feedback?


	15. Chapter 14 Dark Forest

**Heya guy! I'm so glad this chapter is finally published. These two months had been quite busy for me. And as the result, I suffered a major writer's block. But at least for now I can confidently say that I'd overcome it.**

 **All the credits and thanks should go to my wonderful betas - thedragonaunt and missClaraOswinOswald. I know this chapter isn't one of my best. I constantly got stuck during the writing. Therefore, before their editing, the language and wordings were very incoherent, not to mention all the mistakes. I'm just so grateful to have them keeping me right!**

 **So, Let's move on with the story.**

* * *

 **Chapter 14 Dark Forest**

'John, John. Are you alright?' Whispering in the flickering light of the fire, Molly was a little concerned, as she approached the surgeon with a bamboo plate containing the meal their host provided - millet mixed with rice and pickled venison. She waited, patiently, as the blonde man mumbled something unrecognizable, giving him a smile when he finally focused and shook his head, accepting the food from her.

'Thank you, Molly. Forgive me. I'm just a little weary from the travel,' he said, emitting a small sigh. Molly gave him an understanding nod, gently patting his right shoulder but immediately recalling that this was where the surgeon had once been injured. She withdrew her hand with a mutter of apology. But her friend didn't seem to mind.

'Sherlock said he wanted to look around before joining us,' John said, as he turned to her, not entirely worried about the botanist's whereabouts. 'Well, I told him, as long as he doesn't look into the houses, he should be fine,' he said with a laugh, a blank expression reappearing on his face. Molly looked at him closely, gesturing to invite him to sit on the edge of the porch of the main house. The deck of the largest building was always reserved for guests because it could be easily seen by other diners, around the fire, in the courtyard surrounded by the five family houses - one of which was still under construction.

John gave another sigh, as he settled down.

Settling next to the former army surgeon, Molly released a long breath, lifting her face toward the fire to watch Archie, vigorously bouncing up and down around a group of young lads. She was slightly surprised to see all the men of the family were present tonight. There were usually a few of them who chose to spend the night in other clans with their lovers, when there weren't any important events.

She wondered what they were expecting.

'Archie is very happy,' the doctor's voice interrupted her thoughts, as she turned back to see John staring at her son playing with the host family, by the fire. There was a stillness to his expression that made Molly's heart skip. Biting her lip, she silently chastised her own thoughtlessness. She should have known seeing Archie in the village would remind John of his son.

'John-'

'I shouldn't have come,' he said quietly. A small laugh escaped him, as he lowered his gaze to look at his food. 'I don't know what I was thinking. Sherlock just assumed that I'd accompany him to wherever he wished to go. But I should have known better. Things couldn't be the same for me after…' he squeezed out a wry smile. 'You may not know this, Molly. But the truth is I stopped coming here as a welcome guest even before that. I can't even recall when was the last time I dined with them,' he laughed, shaking his head, as the young men around the fire continued their jesting.

Molly bit her lip again, not knowing what to say. She didn't remember seeing the surgeon dine with the villagers. The last time she saw him here was the second day after that catastrophic storm, when she was brought from the town of Provintia after Tom was killed in the collapsed chapel. The surgeon arrived the day after and was immediately caught up in a fierce fight with the his son's uncles. For he wished to give the boy a Christian burial, while the child had already been dried* and set to be buried under the wrecked family house, along with his mother and sisters.

Molly wasn't sure how their quarrel was settled. She only knew that, eventually, John managed to bury his son in the cemetery, not so far from Tom. But since that day, he hadn't visited the village very often, as he resigned his post in the castle of Provintia and started to look around for irregular employment on and off the island.

Sometimes Molly wondered if there would come a day when he decided to leave Formosa, once and for all.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The thatched stilt houses looked quite similar, with some of them larger than the others. The main supports were timber, while the smaller pillars and walls were sometimes made of bamboos. _How very interesting_ , Sherlock thought, as he turned yet another corner, with the daylight fading quickly. An old man, sitting on the porch, gave him a slight nod when he noticed the botanist staring at him. Sherlock nodded back, with uncertainty. People in the village seemed not to mind him walking around. A few children looked at him curiously, as they whispered to one another with hisses and giggles. Among the unrecognizable utterances, Mrs. Jansen's and Archie's names were mentioned more than once. Sherlock had known, since he decided to sail to this island, that the Formosans were known to be suspicious of anyone they deemed to be outsiders. But apparently, under the protection of his landlady's fine reputation, his presence was at least tolerated.

By the time Sherlock realized the sky had turned completely dark, he had already come to the very edge of the village, where people's voices could barely be heard, while the noises came from the thick forest ahead, slowly taking over the night. A gust of chilly whirlwind cut through the wood, as Sherlock peered into the underbrush. Cold air hit his face like a sharp blow, causing him to sneeze. Rubbing his still-wet hair, Sherlock stared into the darkness. The scent of the wet soil was so refreshing, he felt as through he had jumped into a cold lake.

Strolling along the edge of the village, by the flickering light from the houses, the botanist gradually made out a general map of the entire clan. Most of the houses in the outer circle of the village were smaller and unoccupied, with extra tall pillars lifting the floors as high as a grown woman. These were all storage buildings. He could tell by the aromas seeping through the walls. Dry, aged meats all had the same fragrance, when properly processed.

Next to the group of storage buildings, a large garden caught Sherlock attention. He didn't realize it was a garden at first, until he tripped on a small hoe hidden in the grass. Kneeling on the ground, immediately he recognized the rough grass he stood in was, in fact, a mix of rice cultivated with peas, taros and some kind of melon. Pressing both of his palms into the dirt, Sherlock smiled, as he felt the texture of the soil beneath his fingers. Only well-tended gardens could have the earth so fine and moist. So far, in Formosa, he'd only seen Mrs. Jansen's botanical garden having this kind of soil. And speaking of Mrs. Jansen, there was also a very subtle scent of magnolia mixed with other flowers permeating through the grass. Perhaps there were some blossoming trees in the nearby forest. He should come back for a closer look in the daylight. Nothing could be done here, when he could hardly see and hear anything except for the small, rustlings noise coming from the woods.

Noises.

Rustling noises came from the woods, immediately behind the low fence separating the forest and the village.

Then they stopped, as Sherlock stood up and gazed into the bushes. Nothing could be heard or felt, as the botanist started to move towards the underbrush.

Nothing could be heard, except for some heavy breathing.

It was the sound of a man.

A man, whose eyes had been fixed on him, hiding his head in the underbrush. Nothing else marked his presence.

'What in the name of-' muttering into the dark, Sherlock found himself striding over the low fence into the tangling underbrush, staring at the spot straight ahead of him where the sound of breathing was the loudest. Feeling his own heart pounding, he tentatively made a step forwards. The thick vegetation held his legs back. He blinked, dimly recalling the warnings he'd repeatedly been given concerning entering the local forest unaccompanied.

Then, all of the sudden, the man lurking in the dark took off, hustling through the bushes.

Without a second thought, Sherlock jumped forward in pursuit. 'Stop!' The word came as a sharp whisper rather than a shout. But the man had disappeared into the dense blackness, leaving behind only the small rustling noises, lingering in the cool air. Pushing through the grass and shrubs, Sherlock struggled to keep up. Another call of 'stop' echoed again, at the back of his mind. Leaping over a large stone in his path, he ignored the nagging of his senses. A mysterious man, who had been spying on him, just escaped his clutches. No way would he lose him, because of some kind of boring restrictions holding him…

'I told you to stop,' a high pitched bark followed a swish of flying cane, hitting him on the shoulder. The sound of a loud thwack made him wince. Sharp pain halted his dragging footsteps, almost making him topple. Turning back immediately, to snatch the cane, Sherlock realized it wasn't his imagination that had been calling him back all along but a small woman, stalking yards behind him with a lamp and a ridiculously long bamboo cane, caught in her armpit pointing forward.

'What on earth do you think you're doing?' he snapped at her. The young woman responded by poking the long stick - that ghastly thing was even taller than him - straight at his chest. The lamp she held over her head swung slightly, as she rolled her eyes.

'Get back here,' she hissed. Impatience was written all over her face. 'They'll open fire if they hear you. Are you bloody suicidal?'

Sherlock blinked. 'They?'

'Our guards in the watch tower. Weren't you told when you first arrived? Step back! They can shoot in the dark as well as in the daylight.' she said, before turning back to stalk away, giving another snort of laughter and shaking her head. It was then that Sherlock recognized her. She was Saiyun, the heiress of the head family of the clan and Fredrik Bos' wife.

That contemptuous glare she gave him was exactly the same as when he first met her in Provintia, when her entire family stormed into the castle, after her husband was arrested at the wedding feast.

'Why are you still standing there? I told you to get back,' she snapped, as she leaped unhindered across the low fence, dropping the bamboo pole dismissively, as she landed, Bracing the small of her back with a sigh, she put the lamp down on the ground to rub her belly. Sherlock couldn't help but stare at her pregnant figure. It looked somehow more prominent than last month. Why did she wander about on her own out in the dark like this?

'I…' taking in a deep breath, Sherlock hesitated before raising his voice to speak across the distance between them. 'I was chasing a man…There was a man running into the forest. I'm pretty sure he was watching me before I…'

'It would be one of our guards-'

'He ran off once I saw him. If he were a guard that wouldn't make any sense.'

'Doesn't matter. If you carry on making noises like this they'll shoot. Move, now!' she sniffed, raising the light once again. Sherlock found himself narrowing his eyes.

'Shouldn't you be alarmed when I tell you there was someone hiding in the forest near your village?'

'It could be a deer. Or maybe a muntjac. Goats. Hogs. Or just you being spooked by the slightest noise. Dreaming about seeing something hiding in the forest-'

'It's not. And I-'

'Can't you just shut up and move?' the girl exclaimed in frustration. 'Even if it was a stranger that you saw, you can't go into the forest like this. If you're shot or lost, the castle will blame Molly for sure.'

The mention of his landlady rendered Sherlock suddenly speechless. Looking at the girl's stark face, the botanist reluctantly bit his lip and lifted his foot in the underbrushes, still not quite convinced that the guards in the watch tower could actually aim and hit anything by mere sounds. But despite his doubts, he was fairly sure that Mrs. Jansen would-

Three bursts of firing cracked the night in the forest behind him, sending whizzes of warmth grazing his neck and arms. By instinct, Sherlock dived and landed on the ground. The next thing he heard was a gasp coming from the girl. The lamp in her hand crashed to the ground, as another bullet hit only a foot from his skull. The heat from the proximity of the lead ball made his head feel light. Vaguely, he remembered John had mentioned a guarding watch tower that could contain up to eight grown men inside.

Another round flew, just as Sherlock rolled to his left, trying to get as far away as possible from where he had been standing. Jumping to his feet, he dashed as fast as he could towards the village, knocking down the low fence, whilst a final round hit exactly where he had just been lying.

Stumbling into a clump of ripe millet, he panted violently as he heard the sound of raised voices in the distance. Slowly rising from the ground, Sherlock could feel embarrassment burning in his chest, as the village began to respond to the sudden sound of gunshots. Looking around, he saw Saiyun reaching for her broken lamp. The weak fire flickered in the wind. She lifted her head to glance at him. But Sherlock couldn't see her face. It was too dark.

He wondered if he could think of a good excuse when Mrs. Jansen asked him why he had done something so stupid.

* * *

* One of the prominent burial rituals of the Formosans was that the dead bodies need to be dried before being buried near where they used to live.

Review, please? Please please please please please!


	16. Chapter 15 The Evening

**Hello, dear readers,**

It's been a while since the last update. But I still hope you will enjoy this chapter as I was having fun writing it.

As usual, I have to give my gratitute to my two betas: thedragonaunt, and missClaraOswinOswald. I have a bad habit of writing after midnight so most of the story was written in my sleep. They helped me to edit it into something readable :D

So,

* * *

 **Chapter 15 The Evening**

Molly sat on a front row bench in the wooden chapel. One. Two. Three. She counted, silently, under her breath. Straddling her lap, Archie snuggled in to her, his small arms wrapped around her neck, as he clenched his hands into fists, whimpering, as Molly patted his back.

'It will be alright,' she whispered, against the boy's ear, aware that her restrained voice was telling him otherwise. Archie lifted his head to stare at her, blinking in the near darkness.

'But you don't know,' he grumbled. Molly could only give him a wry smile. She could see her son chewing his tongue, before he turned his head to look to the other side, where the women of their host family were clustered together, holding each other's hands. None of them spoke a word, as some of the other villagers gathered around the windows, peering out, muttering worriedly about the gun shots fired moments ago.

Letting out a small sigh, Molly gazed at their hosts, wordlessly admiring their composure. It had been a perfectly normal evening until the sound of muskets broke the peace of their supper, immediately sending the entire village to arms, as all the young and able-bodied men - including John - were asked to gather and pick up whatever weapons they had to hand - muskets, swords, knives, spears or bows and arrows - and to prepare for the possible battle which had caused the guards in the forest watch tower to open fire. Meanwhile, the rest of the villagers were expected to put out all the lights and fires then take shelter in the chapel, guarded by some old men and young women, hiding nearby.

And in the confusion, despite not saying a word, Molly knew unspoken panic was brewing amongst their host family. Because their pregnant heiress, Saiyun, together with her twin brother Kuyun, were nowhere to be found. The girl had fetched her brother and left the family house before the supper was served, telling her aunts she wanted to see her crops at the end of the village before the sun went down, ignoring anything they'd said against it.

Her field was right at the east end of the clan, not far away from the shooting watch tower.

But that didn't stop the Tamapagowats from quickly leaping into action, escorting their guests and elders to shelter before joining the others in the east end.

'What about Mr. Holmes?' Archie had asked, when he and Molly were led into the chapel with the other women and children. Molly tried to brush him off over the question. She had no idea where the botanist had gone. And judging from his exchange with John earlier today, about the knowledge of battle and warfare, she was fairly certain he wouldn't know what to do under these circumstances.

It sent a surge of dull pain to her stomach.

So she remained still, counting her own breaths and trying to comfort Archie. Yet, so far as she could tell, it didn't help much as all people in the hall were still alerted. Some of them were pacing around, while most of them, like the Tamapagowats, were sitting together hand in hand. From the whispers they'd given out, Molly could tell that the twins weren't the only ones who couldn't be found when the firing broke. But there was nothing else they could do. Being the weak and helpless, they could only make themselves scarce and stay quiet.

Then, all of a sudden, the side door opposite the entryway flew open. Mr. Van de Berg the schoolmaster stalked in, making everyone jump. He walked straight towards the front, sitting down next to Molly with a heavy gasp.

Archie let out a small groan, turning away to bury his face in Molly's neck. Molly gave his back a little squeeze. She knew her boy wasn't particularly fond of the schoolmaster.

'What chaos it is,' Mr. Van de Berg panted. As he began, half the chapel gasped in disapproval, but the schoolmaster merely went on.

'I'm sorry you have to be here to witness this, ma'am,' he said with a shrug. 'It's a very inappropriate situation for a lady to find herself in, I'm afraid.' He let out a chuckle. Molly glanced towards him over Archie's thick hair. She could hear the small snorts made by the other women in the chapel. The only reason they didn't rebuke him right away was because they needed to remain silent until further notice.

'I'm sure it will soon be resolved, Mr. Van de Berg,' Molly turned to give him a smile. The schoolmaster groaned, fidgeting in his seat. Right behind them, Molly could hear a couple of young women biting out a clear word of mockery, suggesting that his leathery lungs would get them all killed. Running her fingers through Archie's smooth hair, Molly looked away to temporarily block herself from the suffocating tension surrounding them. The scent from her son's clean hair moistened her eyes, slightly, as she blinked into the void ahead. The schoolmaster beside her continued to talk, saying he should have a word with Fredrik Bos for not stopping the guards from shooting in the dark, at night. Molly was a little surprised to hear the soldier's name. She had no idea that the poor man had been asked to take the night watch right after he arrived home. Could it be possible that Saiyun went to the east end to see him, accidentally making some noises and, being mistaken for an intruder? Chills crept up her spine while, once again, Archie whimpered against her chest, then seemed to drift slowly into sleep.

Then, just as Molly was about to wake him, the side door next to the alter opened quietly, in the dark. John and Kuyun trotted in.

'It's all clear now.' the surgeon hissed, halting in front of Molly, while Kuyun went over to talk to his aunts. Molly felt her mouth drop, as the chill on her back dissolved into relieved warmth.

'Are you sure?' she whispered, hearing the lad saying something hurriedly that made the women exclaim in surprise. Saiyun and Sherlock's names were brought up a couple of times. But Molly couldn't hear clearly what they said.

'Yes, I'm sure,' John sighed, wiping away the sweat on his forehead. 'Although you should probably come with me, quickly. Sherlock got himself injured and -'

'What?' Molly gasped, hurrying to stand up. Archie groaned and kicked, as she lowered him to the ground. John let out another sigh. The boy rubbed his face and snuggled back into Molly's arms.

'Don't worry too much,' he said with a shrug. 'He just has a small cut on his head and a few scratch on his forearms…maybe a split lip and a bruised cheek. They are taking him back to their family house…It's quite a mess, to be honest,' he paused, giving Molly a weary smile then reached down to pick up the sleepy Archie.

'Come on then. I'll tell you what happened on the way,' he looked towards the women behind, before gesturing Molly to follow him. Molly bit her lip, as she kept up, glancing back one last time, before she stepped out of the chapel. Mr. Van de Berg was staring at her, his expression looked rather serious in the dim light of the newly lit lamps, as if there was something troubling him. But before she was able to have any second thoughts, Archie called out for her, from John's arms. Without any hesitation she ran forwards into the cool night, where the men in the village were slowly putting away their weapons and one by one, relighting all the lamps and fires.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Surrounded by a crowd of - _exactly thirty three_ \- people, Sherlock Holmes, the botanist who was paying his very first visit to the Formosan clan of Sinkan, was on edge. Sitting on a low stool in the middle of the courtyard, his landlady, who had just finished wiping away the blood on his face with a wet cloth, was trying to clean up what was left in his hair. Her small lips pursed into a thin line, as she noticed Sherlock secretly glancing up at her. Wisps of hair fell loose from her white cap but she didn't seem to notice. Archie had already been put to bed. And Sherlock didn't need to pick up the small sighs escaping from her to know that she was exhausted.

Not far away, by the fire, Fredrik Bos was explaining to the village's schoolmaster about what had happened at the east end of the village, deliberately leaving out the part where, being the first person to arrive at the scene and finding out his wife had crossed the border fence to stop him from running into the forest, he had punched Sherlock in the face. Beside him sat Saiyun, being fussed over by her aunts, while her twin brother Kuyun stood aside, his head bowed, being lectured by the older brothers and uncles. The lad kept looking up to glance towards his sister and Fredrik. On one occasion he even looked at Sherlock but immediately turned away when he found the botanist staring back. Sherlock couldn't understand a word they were saying but the boy's diffident behavior made him suspect that there was something off among the three. Perhaps - Sherlock could only speculate - Saiyun and Fredrik was trying to withhold the fact that the lad had left his sister completely alone in the dark, only to show up - disheveled and with a young girl at his heels - from the direction of the storage buildings, after the gunshots startled the whole village. And, judging by the steely glare Fredrik was casting upon him right now, the botanist knew he was correct.

'Better not to appear so pleased, Sherlock.' Appearing behind his landlady, John Watson's sudden voice interrupted Sherlock's observation. Raising his eyebrows, he looked up in the flickering light to face his friend's serious expression, amused by the surgeon's choice of language.

'What about it, John?' Responding in English, the botanist chuckled. His friend exchanged a look with his landlady. Annoyance was written all over John's face, while Mrs. Jansen let out a small sigh, pursing her lips once again, as if she was pondering what to say.

'Mr. Holmes-'

'Do you have any idea how lucky you were, Sherlock?' John spat, his sharp shout making the whole courtyard silent for a moment.

'What were you even thinking, running into the forest like that? From the look of the marks you made and the bullet holes in the ground you should have been blasted into pulp-'

'But I dodged them all, didn't I?' Sherlock retorted, trying to suppress a laugh, straightening up in the seat to gaze at his friend. 'Stop being such a bore as to state the obvious, John. I know I was lucky not to get shot. And I owe that girl my sincerely expressed gratitude, for sure. Now if you could just-' he tried to stand up but his friend gestured him to stay.

'Not just her, though,' a rough hand placed firmly on Sherlock's shoulder to hold him down, John shook his head. Sherlock pouted again.

'What do you mean?'

'You should thank her husband, as well. You have no idea…' The surgeon let out a long breath in frustration, before he continued. 'Fredrik told me that he managed to wipe out Saiyun's footprints before other guards and the rest of the clan arrived-'

'After he punched me, you mean?'

'- So that no one in the family would know that their precious heiress had to crossed the border fence to save your life. Trust me, Sherlock. You'd prefer them to remain oblivious to this. Young Bos is doing you a big favor, despite having every desire to kill you himself' John literally bit out the last few words in his face. Sherlock winced, trying to back down.

'Alright,' he said.

'And also…Saiyun has asked me to tell you not to say anything about her brother. About what you saw by her gardens,' Mrs. Jansen said gently, tilting her head. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle. Blinking at his landlady, the botanist grinned, as he asked,

'Did she tell you what I was supposed not to see, Mrs. Jansen?' He tried not to grin, ignoring John's disapproving glare.

'No,' she answered, pointedly. 'Though she did say a great deal about how you trampled her crops. She's very upset about it,' she pursed her lips once again. Sherlock felt his mouth open. Turning to look at the young couple by the fire, he saw Saiyun, now nibbling from the same plate as her husband, was shedding tears involuntarily, while Fredrik tried his best to comfort her.

'On second thoughts,' John snorted, as he stretched his arms over his head. 'You being shot at wasn't exactly a very bad thing, considering what you did to her crops-'

'And not just any crops,' Mrs. Jansen's concerned voice drew Sherlock's attention back to her twitching hands. Putting down the fabric in her hand, she settled next to him then turned to look at the people by the fire. The girl was now surrounded again by her families.

'What's so special about those crops?' he asked, turning to look at his landlady. Mrs. Jansen's shoulders dropped, as she sighed.

'Those are wish crops,' she said, almost in a whisper. 'Crops cultivated by the expectant mother alone. They are meant to be gifts to the unborn child. They say that the more prosperous the crops grow…'

'The more prosperous the offspring is going to be?' flatly, the botanist muttered, recalling the fine texture of the carefully tended soil in the gardens.

'Exactly,' Mrs. Jansen whispered.

'But that's just superstition,' Sherlock muttered, feeling both John and Mrs. Jansen's gaze falling upon him, as John slowly stalked away to get something from the porch behind them.

'Superstition or not, Mr. Holmes, she put an awful lot of effort into that field. I'd imagine every plow man would be upset if his field was trampled, wouldn't you agree?' his landlady exclaimed, pursing her lips, as she stared at him.

'Yes. Yes, of course,' Sherlock uttered, looking away to hide his embarrassment. How could he overlook something so basic? He should have known such well-tended garden would be off-limits, even in a foreign place like this.

'So, what now?' Ruffling his hair, Sherlock blinked at the people ahead. 'Shall I apologize and…How do I make amends?'

'You don't,' John's voice came from behind, as he reappeared with a plate of food, shoving it onto Sherlock's lap.

'Not for now, anyway. Come on. Eat up and we can call it a night,' the surgeon said, placing a spoon in the plate. 'It's late. Better not to bother them when they're otherwise occupied. And I gather they will have more questions for you tomorrow, about the intruder you saw,' his voice tailed off, while the young soldier glanced up towards them. Sherlock gave him a slight nod, sensing the sting on his left cheek and upper lip.

'Finish the plate so we can get out of their sight, alright?' John jabbed him in the side with his elbow. Sherlock didn't respond, simply wolfing down the unrecognized food he was given, while his landlady observed his manners. _You're just like Archie,_ she said. Sherlock smiled, as he gorged himself on the salty strew. He'd no idea how hungry he was until the hot meal was presented.

It didn't seem long before he was licking the bamboo spoon. John tutted when Sherlock asked if he could have another helping. The people in the courtyard soon began to disperse, after Saiyun left her seat and retired into the house. Fredrik Bos left as soon as she left. Mrs. Jansen told Sherlock that the young soldier was going back to the watch tower to stand guard, the rest of the night. _Poor man, he tries so hard to fit in_ , she sighed, as John stood up to fetch Sherlock a refill. None of them noticed another man approaching, in the dark.

' _Goedenavond_ ,' the schoolmaster emerged from the crowds, standing right before them and bidding his greeting. Mrs. Jansen instantly rose up. 'I hope this isn't a bother, ma'am, Mr. Holmes,' he said, focusing on Mrs. Jansen. Sherlock frowned. He didn't know the schoolmaster was still with this family.

'Oh, I though you already left, Mr. Van de Berg,' Mrs. Jansen said, nervously clenching her hands.

'I did. But then I decided to come back. May I have a word with you, Mrs. Jansen? In private, I should say,' he took a step back, as Mrs. Jansen stared in surprise. She looked back at Sherlock and blinked. Her lips opened and closed a few times, before she turned back.

'Yes, of course,' she said, swallowing hard, as she walked away. Sherlock watched, as they moved to stand in the shadow, not so far from the courtyard, completely beyond his reach outside the warm light of the campfire.

* * *

 _Goedenavond=_ good evening


End file.
